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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29300028">achilles sings deceit. orpheus sings defeat, &amp; theseus sings decay.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkshatteredkneecaps/pseuds/pinkshatteredkneecaps'>pinkshatteredkneecaps</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Addiction, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Arson, Baker Niki | Nihachu, Betrayal, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Demon Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Deviates From Canon, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Exile, Family Issues, Fire, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Insane Wilbur Soot, Jschlatt is Toby Smith | Tubbo's Parent, Manberg Festival on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Manipulation, Medical Experimentation, Medical Trauma, Mental Breakdown, Metaphors, Mild Gore, Near Death, Niki | Nihachu Needs a Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rage, Ram Hybrid Toby Smith | Tubbo, References to Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore, Resentment, Self-Destruction, Slight canon deviation, Some Humor, Song: Eight (Sleeping At Last), Technoblade Hears Voices (Video Blogging RPF), Traitor Wilbur Soot, Twins Wilbur Soot &amp; Technoblade, Unhappy Ending, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Wilbur Soot is Floris | Fundy's Parent, character death is temporary, like a lot my brain just went on a brisk jog through no canon land, not based at all on real people just the SMP characters, personal conflict, well not a lot but with the characters sometimes yknow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:15:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>108,355</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29300028</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkshatteredkneecaps/pseuds/pinkshatteredkneecaps</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s late afternoon by the time I head towards home. The general rejoice of the morning had long faded into early afternoon slumber. A gentle hum of cicadas, and heat of the sun battering down on me through the tree foliage, clings to the day, a slight breeze making the heat be not completely unbearable, and I find myself craving to return to the chill of Pogtopia, the gentle cold of the cavern and homely flicker of the lanterns hanging along the rafters.<br/>I was delaying the inevitable. Playing with time as if it cared, and rejoicing when it budged by mere inches. I turn around, taking a last look around at the world and how it looks in the afternoon, before the distant sound of yelling snaps me out of it, and my shoulders drop into those of a soldier, back upright and jaw set, teeth biting my tongue, trying to drown the riptide of panic that was slowly pulling me under the cerulean waves.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dream SMP Ensemble &amp; TommyInnit, Jschlatt &amp; Wilbur Soot, No Romantic Relationship(s), Technoblade &amp; TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Tubbo &amp; Tommyinnit, Wilbur Soot &amp; Technoblade &amp; TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Handmade Heaven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>the song for this chapter is 'handmade heaven', by miss marina and the diamonds. please listen while reading if you are able, i listened to it on repeat while writing this chapter, and feel it fits both the dynamic of the situation, and mindset of the character!<br/>enjoy! &lt;3</p><p>hello my loves, there is some mention of some past injuries, bl**d, y*lling, in this chapter, so, please, please be aware of that!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>ACT I: The Deceit of Achilles</p><p>-TOMMY-</p><hr/><p> </p><p>There is no sunrise here.</p><p>There is no sunrise underground, and as apparent traitors, at the end of the day, did we really deserve it? Now, nobody but Schlatt had explicitly said that we were, in fact, traitorous individuals, but there was no doubt it was what we’d become. I mean, we were hiding away in a ravine, for End's sake. I wouldn't exactly call that a summer holiday.</p><p>It was abundantly clear to see we’d been dethroned. I don’t think it was a sudden fall from greatness, and in a way, we’re still falling, all the way from above the clouds, to bedrock itself, even though it's been just a month, since me and Will went and got ourselves exiled. It’s gotten brighter here, I think, however gradually that took. Lanterns slowly replaced our hastily made torches. Bridges appeared in the stead of stray tipsy planks that would threaten to tip and send you falling forty some odd feet to your either extremely painful death, or a critically wounded state that I almost ended up in nearly every night because I forget we’re not home. Back inside the walls, I used to late-night wander, dragging my fingers against the tall, black stone until I eventually had gone full circle and realized I had no more wall to walk. But, that is no longer something I have access to, because I don't know if we will ever be allowed anywhere near there again.</p><p>I’m not too fond of sleeping in my little corner of Pogtopia, to be honest. It feels like a selfish complaint, I mean, Pogtopia isn't all that bad, it's quieter than things were before, that's for sure, but there's definitely something else here, something that wasn't there before. My reasoning may be weary and dreadfully worn and fragmented from bundles of sleep chained to me, pulling me further underground by the minute. But something's always here, now. A mocking scoff when I have to pass my bed when I’d been sent to retrieve Will’s coat when the sun sets, trying not to let myself really soak in how pathetic everything truly was, because once I did, I’m sure the list of revelations on how blissfully stupid everything was, would just keep going, if I wanted to or not.</p><p>But the worst part, at least from my point of view in my small little cot, even now, blocks away and far too underground for Dream to really be able to get at me, is that every time I turn over, my back presses against the wall and and it jolts me awake. The small nicks in the stone replace themselves with the heavy in-heart sensation of the tip of an arrow, a feeling that makes my chest ache and recall the arrow that lodged itself deep in my skull with extreme clarity, taking a deep breath and trying to dispel it.</p><p>I didn’t even need to close my eyes in order to taste the blood pooling on my tongue, the panic rising from the back of my throat, and the loud, cacophonous clatter of war oozing back to my memory. Screams and shouts of my name dwindling to nothing as my heart ticked down to two mistakes left to make, and the world was taken from me for the second time; the horizon descending upon me an avalanche of nothing. My heart was pounding, as a newly discovered sense of alarm courses through me, and I don't know if it was panic, or what, but it was something I had begun to drown in. I hear the whisper of an unknown figure in the dark, and imagine them coming from behind me with a terrifying grin painted upon porcelain, and a wickedly sharp blade. The crackle of a dying out lantern from somewhere probably above me sounds like something big and not something that is supposed to be on fire, is on fire and I flinch, mind whirring with the deafening ring from a stray explosion, and the faint redstone glow in a small room, air edged in unease and unsettlement, before all hell broke loose, and I frown.</p><p>It wasn't too long ago that that very same thing had occurred to my brother, now that I've decided to begin thinking about this, not like I could forget any of it, it was just something that played on loop, now, whether I like it to or not. It had happened moments after we'd been exiled, and they were yelling and whooping, and he'd cursed, yelled my name, and grabbed my hand, and dragged me the fuck out of there, as I literally could not move, as my brain was still reeling from the pure shock of the moment. Arrows were whizzing past, the sound, morphing with that of Schlatt's inhumanly terrifying laughter was gnarled and just felt... I don't know, <em>rotten</em>. We had managed to dodge quite a fair few besides the one that nicked the side of my neck, which was no big deal, just a little blood down my uniform, that was fine. For a moment, we were all in the clear, until he jolted forward, and screamed out in agony, nearly falling to the ground, and would have, if I hadn't grabbed him, my stomach turning in more than just nausea at the sight that only the fletch was visible, the feathers almost tearing out of the arrow due to the impact. We needed to get medical attention, we needed the medical officer, and quickly, but that was not a luxury we would be spared, and so... we kept running. Listen, I'd lived through a war, was practically raised in one, if you want to get nit-picky, so I know what injuries are survivable, and which ones get you booted up to Respawn, and based on the blood loss, and the clouds that were passing over my brother's eyes, although I could see him trying to push them away, the man struggling to stay awake as he continues to run, probably on pure adrenaline, straight through a river and up the bank, that he did not have long. He collapsed the second I'd gotten us inside this cavern we used to stay in to camp as kids, and even though I was terrified of the dark, it was better than being out there. He died half a minute later, I could tell from how suddenly his grip went slack, and I think I may have stayed like that for the rest of the night, waiting for him to respawn, even though I knew full well, that isn't how this works. We were both on two. One strike left before we were out. </p><p>It was always too quiet here for me, and no matter how loud I got, memories of the before always manage to get louder. Turning over in my cot, and yawning as I manage to catch a glimpse of the clock, which reads almost five, my shoulders dropping in relief that it was near morning, and I didn’t have to fake sleep for much longer. Soon, I could just finally have the daylight to take my mind off of the continuously happening panic movie I’d been replaying in my mind for years, like an old movie your parents force you to watch, starring all the things I'd done right, but, mostly the things that went wrong, (because there is quite a lot of those, all truth be told) whirring across a fragmented screen, as if my life was nothing but a premiere for a very unsettling film before the real movie begins. But, this film is just poisoned hearts, flame and the random occasional anarchy that pops out of literally nowhere to ruin our day.</p><p>I tuck the ends of my blanket under my pillow, yawning as I hear Will's quiet singing echoing from far away, his voice gaunt and hollow, as if the lack of sun had started to not only whittle away at his mental state and overall patience towards me, but also at his voice. He'd grown noticeably angrier the longer we spent down here, and it got to such a boiling point between us, that now it seemed that I had to creep around him like a felon, to not set him off on a tangent. And oh, how Wilbur liked his tangents. He'd grin maniacally as he'd yell and watch as his words ricochet off the walls and shred away at my skin, his eyes blaring with the look of a man who's morals were now so damn hard to place, I can't even do it if I tried. But he'd apologize later. Always. </p><p>This time of morning, Pogtopia was still deadly quiet, and it felt like even just breathing completely normal echoed against the stone, and destroyed the silence of the morning, and that, in all honesty seemed extremely upsetting to me. I liked the quiet here sometimes. Especially how tranquil she seemed when it is just the subtle glow of lanterns, the faint sound of singing, and the triumphant hum of muted peace, as if the world was finally allowed to be at rest for a moment before everything, in it’s constant fashion, went to shit. Wilbur, thank End, wasn’t anywhere near the portal room when I finally managed to get up there, which was weird, as he was known to just sort of pace from end-to-end, through all hours, lost in thought, and chewing away ruthlessly at his bottom lip, flashes of anger glimmering over his eyes, loose whisperings rising in volume until he remembers he isn’t alone, and the demeanor falls back to his customary politeness.</p><p>I frown, running my hand along the low-hanging section of the roof, remembering from the fragile flecks and loose chips of paint that barely lingered still, years after Will would put me on his shoulders as kids and we’d spend the day painting the whole night sky onto the cavern ceiling, during our little weekend adventures before me and the twins left home, and how, it makes me smile momentarily. I liked how even when Pogtopia wasn’t known to us explicitly as '<em>Pogtopia</em>', we found sanctuary in it, even way back then, and treasured it, until we needed help again, and returned to it.</p><p>I round the corner, turning into our tiny little homeless man kitchen, and sigh at the abandoned moleskin notebook, the one with the letters W.S burned onto the cover, sitting open, a quill in the spine, and a now stone-cold cup of coffee was left, discarded, on the makeshift dining table Techno had dragged in from who knows where, papers were scattered, and his compass was open on the table, a weathered, charred photograph of his son, Fundy, at maybe eight or nine, in a very tiny and colorful uniform resembling that of a pastel crayon, that Will and Niki had sewed for him, being displayed for the empty cave kitchen, and myself, to see. A flickering candle sits off to the side of the notebook, and my breath almost extinguishes the flame as I lean over the table, trying to catch a glimpse of exactly what it was Will was writing so late, remembering how he’d write from sunrise till sunset as a kid. Putting music behind whatever it was at night, constantly waking me up and making me go angrily knock on his door to get him to shut up. I smile at the memory, wondering what kind of banger I was in for tonight, but the moment I get a good look at the page, my heart drops.</p><p>It’s pages of what appears to be ramblings.</p><p>Angry, broken and <em>furious</em>, by the look of the now-destroyed quill tip. I can’t decipher much of it, barely any of it, really, except for his Fundy's name, my own, Techno’s, and our father's, each one outlined in a circle. The only thing untouched by blurred words, and even then, the ink our names had been written in must have bled, and were extremely smudged, some letters completely unrecognizable. But I wasn’t worried about that. It seemed he’d tried to preserve our names as much as possible, and when he realized he just couldn’t, something clicked, and the words that really, truly, scared me to my core, became crammed in every corner of the page, dripping in rage and fury, and a frantic sort of fear, in every possible size and variant of how mental someone could be whilst writing, covers the page, and what appears to be dozens of illegible words and sentences written in a maniacal state of panic that coats the notebook, a panic that makes me swallow the knot of worry and fear that had risen in my throat.</p><p>It was one thing seeing my older brother upset at me, we'd spent a lot of time together, it wasn't uncommon. But it was another thing seeing something of his that reeked in the hideous knowledge that he was frighteningly becoming gradually more and more unhinged, and it was he, himself, apparently, who was loosening and tightening the screws as he saw fit. So that not even he knew when he’d fly off the handle, or who he’d let witness the apparent decay of his mind, which, was, again, was apparently a spectacle that had been reserved for my eyes, as Techno appeared to be completely oblivious, which made sense. Will had always said he was an emotional brick wall, and honestly? Good for him.</p><p>“Oh, Will.” I whisper, chewing my lip as I turn the page, my chest burning with panic, as if I’d been set on fire and was burning from the inside out, or maybe it was the outside in? I wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, I’d take being shot in the head again over whatever it was again in a heartbeat. I run my hand over how angrily he spelled his own name, a venomous page of words and sentences ringed in ugly blood-soaked bile stare back at me, the only part that didn’t cause panic, a single circle in the left corner, and a spiral of words written so small I could barely read them. These were Wilbur’s single hopes, and like how Pandora’s box had hope at the very, very bottom, all Wilbur thought he had, was, apparently: Niki, specifically, he’d written her name with care, a heart sitting atop the ‘i’. The smell of her bakery, bullying me, which I thought was nice of him. Him sparring with our brother when they were children, which I could remember snippets of if I tried hard enough, the clang of old iron swords and whoops of joy filling my mind for a moment, Dad’s smile, and Mom’s tips she threw their way as she walked with me to the garden, holding my hand.</p><p>One of those times, they'd been sparring in our front yard, is my first real memory, and if I remembered correctly, Will had won against his twin brother this go, and he was so ecstatic at that feat, he'd ran to pick me up, and had swung me around until we were both giggly and laughing. The list kept going, and memories bit and stung at me, words spiraling into a knot of panic and worry and concern in my chest, as I read, the words and experiences jumping off the page at me.</p><p><em>When I was president and people cheered for me,</em> I remember that. I remember Will’s smile, and how he’d ran to Fundy the moment his speech was over, the applause deafening out the sounds of his footsteps as he goes to pick the boy up, grinning as tears tracked down his face. He'd pointed the fireworks out to his son afterwards, who was enraptured, the boy’s eyes, identical to that of his father’s, and who looked absolutely captivated by all the light and color, took a minute away from the sky, to wipe away his father’s tears and kiss him on the cheek, making Will laugh and whisper something to Fundy, who chuckled and rested his head on his father’s shoulder, both of them watching the fireworks in an identical childlike awe.</p><p><em>My son. Watching him grow up into someone greater than I’ll ever be.</em> From the moment Fundy was born, Will did his most to prioritize whatever he did for his son. Always. It was quite controversial a thought, but I’m convinced the reason why he started L’manberg with us and won all those wars, was for that boy. Because the way Will looked at him, even now, was of nothing but absolute pride and love, and I knew that Will would burn the whole nation to bedrock to see him safe, even if he had no idea how to follow through with that calmly, which explains the thousands of little songs he’s written him throughout the years, and the country he brought to life out of nothing, like a symphony, rising, brutally and gracefully from the ashes.</p><p>
  <em>Me, Tommy and Tubbo living in the van. Tubbo, building everything he possibly could. Dad protecting me. Sally. Turning a stupid ravine into ‘Pogtopia’, somewhere safe and beautiful, out of nothing, and two recent nobodies. My guitar. My brothers. Home. Dad…</em>
</p><p>“What the fuck are you doing, Tommy?”</p><p><em><strong>Shit</strong></em>. Fear sinks to the pit of my stomach, and I turn my head sharply, shutting the notebook, and gulping down bile and panic at Wilbur’s appearance. He looks almost feral, his eyes ravenous and furious, as heavy eye bags weigh down his sunken cheeks, pale skin, and the faint hint of amber eyes behind those of a rabid animal.</p><p>“I’m not doing anything, Wil.” I flinch when he laughs, the sound is cruel, and unforgivingly harsh, and I watch as his hands clench into fists at his sides, and for the first time, I’m genuinely afraid he’ll hurt me, because I don't think he would think before the attack, I think he would just... attack. </p><p>“Are you sure about that? Are you sure you’re not lying to me, because I don’t like liars, you see, you should know that. What were you doing?” His voice is like steel being grated against cement, and it sets off every possible alarm bell in my brain. This man was not my brother. This man right now was cruel, and wicked, and insanity dripped off of him like the stalactites perched in the ceiling of Pogtopia, adding more and more of that poison to him by the minute. I lose my balance slightly, and stumble sideways, revealing the sight of Wil’s notebook, which seemed, unfortunately, as if it had just had its spine cracked on every fifth page, the thing reeking in guilt.</p><p>Wil’s eyes fall upon it, turning towards me in rapid fury, him crossing the floor of the kitchen and grabbing me by my bandana so sudden, I don’t even realize it’s even occurred until he’s slammed me against the wall, the air knocked clean out of me, eyes glowing with a fury unmatched by a wild boar, or even our older brother, Techno, which was saying a lot.</p><p>“Tommy… did you read my notebook? Is that why you were over here? Did you read it? Answer me, Tommy, goddamn it!” His eyes glint with panic and fury as I stumble for words, my eyes drawn to how unhinged his expression became by the moment, chest heaving out frantic breaths, eyes wide.</p><p>“No! No, Wil. No, I didn’t read it. It was just here, and I, uh, I remembered your notebook collection from home, and I, um, I zoned out for a minute thinking about it. I wouldn’t go through your notebook, I promise.” I manage to whisper to him, the knot in my chest untightening by a rung as Wil’s entire demeanor drops, his hands still locked on my bandana, laughing lightly, fury becoming replaced with a sort of... carefree, yet joltingly agitated demeanor, as if teetering over the edge of calm with every word.</p><p>“I’d thought you seen… Sorry, there’s, um, a lot of personal stuff in here, you see, and I panicked..” He chuckles, his eyes unclouding from the cloud of gunfire they held moments ago, and he releases me, my feet dropping to the floor, as he turns on his heel, beginning to gather his things from our makeshift kitchen table.</p><p>I don’t move. I remain where I was dropped, in a complete state of shock of what I’d just witnessed, my eyes remain trained on Wilbur, who is cleaning the wax from his candle off the table with his finger nail, scowling when he looks back at me.</p><p>“Is there something wrong, Tommy?” I remain silent for a moment, trying to piece words together that won’t set him off, and I shake my head and straighten my posture.</p><p>“No, Wil. No, nothing’s wrong. Did you sleep at all last night?” A flash of frustration passes over Wil’s face, before disappearing completely, a small smile being flashed my way, lingering in the air of fabrication and an urge to satisfy my question, and get me off his back.</p><p>“A little bit. I had to do something, so I got sidetracked. You were snoring, you know?” For a moment, Wil is smiling, and I manage a laugh, grinning as Will returns my laughter with what I can just barely see, is a the hint of small, almost invisible smile, until I realize that Wil has stopped moving after he picked up his compass, and now, he just holds it in his palm, his son’s smile in his tiny little crayon uniform I remember laughing at him for, stares back for a moment before he turns back to look at me. The faint exaggeration of tears ringing his eyes, which throws me for a loop, my brain almost flatlining when I try my most to gauge Wil’s emotions in this moment, the whole event giving me a headache while I try and reflect upon it in the half second this had all occurred.</p><p>“Do you… do you think it’s all still worth it, Tommy?” The breath catches in my throat, and I watch as Wil traces the edge of his compass. Truth be told, I never was good at pep talks, them all sounding cheesy, and half-assed, so to be able to piece together a response, was absolutely too much on my end. Too much was going on with Wil to begin with, and it was happening too fast for me to be able to understand how I’m supposed to speak to him. It just changes so much, he can go from downright terrifying to the Will who’d sit atop the van with me at night and make up little songs for his son about how he shouldn’t eat butterflies and why the nether was fucking terrible, which I have to admit, were both very valid points.</p><p>“Of course it’s worth it, Wil. It’s home. Protecting our home’s worth it, I promise. Even if it doesn’t seem necessarily the easiest fucking thing in the book, it’s still worth it.” Something unreadable flickers across Will’s face, and for a moment I can see the start of something unnamable that disturbs me to my core, and for a moment, Will goes back to appearing almost feral, before it’s gone. His small, brotherly smile is back, as he walks towards me and pats me on the shoulder, smiling.</p><p>“You’re right, Tommy. Sorry, the lack of sunlight and sleep must be getting to me. Thank you. Stay nearby here, today, if that’s alright. I’ll need you later today.” I nod, doing my best to send a small, hesitant smile Will’s way, a smile I was delighted to find, he accepted, and reciprocated my way.</p><p>“Of course, Wil.” Wil steps to exit the kitchen, before I catch his sleeve. He looks at me in a state of shock, my eyes flickering to his hand, which was going to draw a sword from his belt, and I hope that was done out of instinct rather than defense.</p><p>“Tommy, what-” He starts, looking from my hand to my eyes, my heart falling at how ghostly he seemed from this close, the sight of my older brother appearing like a fucking character from Amityville Horror, made my heart hurt, and it also made me want to set something aflame, just to make Wilbur’s eyes glow with pride for me like they once did. I would do anything for him to be him again, even if it reduced me to a pile of ash.</p><p>“Just because we got banished doesn’t mean he doesn’t still love you, Will. Fundy’s adored you since the moment he was born, and that’s not going to change just because of some idiot named fucking <em>Schlatt</em>, of all things. That’s the same with me. Just because you aren’t L’manberg’s president anymore, doesn’t mean I stop loving you, or you're going to magically stop being my brother, as unfortunate as us being related is.” Wil softens, his eyes flickering to the compass in his hand, before he nods, and laughs, and I’m not talking the feral, rabid shit from earlier, I’m taking him really, really, truly, laughing, so much so he slaps the table once or twice, making me smile as I realise that, for this moment, he’s back to being my older brother, Will. He remains that Will when he steps forward, and hugs me, sighing.</p><p>Slowly, he pulls away, as if afraid to spook a cat as he scruffs up my hair, smiling when I groan and try and shrug his hand away from me. I watch as he disappears into the darkness of Pogtopia, lantern light ghosting against his figure, until there’s nothing left but the glint of the side of his glasses, and the gentle humming of one of the songs he’d written his son about bees, his voice dropping the melody before we even got to the chorus about how they didn’t live in homes, and preferred hills and habitats, which is one of the best parts of the whole song, I think.</p><p>I don’t linger in the kitchen. I wait in the darkness of the low overhang until I hear a match strike in the depths of Pogtopia, and listen, for a moment as whispering begins along with the hurried scratch of my brother’s quill, sighing as I forcibly tear myself away from eavesdropping, and trying to gauge his stability from the pace of his whisperings and how frantic the scratching of his half-busted quill upon paper sounded from this distance. I shake my head, trying to push it to the side as I swing my sword in my hand, the netherite glinting up at me, making the whole space glow purple, reminding me that it really, truly, was a sword from hell, because hell-ish things glow, makes sense to me. Walking along the path, I catch myself humming, and sigh, hating that everything in this moment reminded me even somewhat of Wilbur. It was hard to keep something away if its all you’ve ever known, I suppose.</p><p>Finally, I reach the exit, biting my lip and taking one last look back before I crouch and crawl under a small rock under hang in the side of a small bluff about thirty miles north of L’manberg, a relative safe distance to not be spotted by any guards, or whatever the fuck. I throw my sword through first, and rolling out to join it, the light blinding and I rub my eyes, yawning as I try and adjust my eyes to the sun. I’d been told several times to limit my trips to and from Pogtopia as much as possible, due to the threat of someone possibly following me back, but I take the risk, anyway, as selfish as it is, I can’t stay underground for too long. I need the sun to remember I'm not dead, and being in Pogtopia was a sanctuary, yeah, but it still didn’t stop me from feeling like I was already dead and buried under the ground, given the traitor’s burial. Me and Wilbur’s gravestones given nothing but two single, rickety, planks of wood to mark a grave for travelers to marvel at for years to come, both of us simply forgotten under command of fucking <em>Schlatt</em>, of all people.</p><p>Being forgotten doesn’t bother me, personally. A soldier doesn’t fight for their own name, they fight for the name of what keeps them alive and free of whatever it was they seek freedom from. I would be upset if it was forgotten about what we’d done to get L’manberg, because that wasn’t fair. Losing it wasn’t fair to begin with, but I suppose sometimes the earth just tilts the world that way, and we have to compensate for it in some way or another. Our way being running away after getting our citizenships revoked to our own damn nation, to our old childhood weekend vacation ravine until we had a plan to reclaim our home. It was scuffed and absolutely fucked, but I’d been shot in the head before, so I guess it was just something that happens on the road to trying to create a nation, sometimes you get shot in the head, sometimes you get kicked out of your own baby nation before it can even fucking walk, and you have to watch some random dude rename it, and raise it the way he wants, which is kind of fucking rude, but whatever, everything is all well and good and fine, and my older brother was definitely not losing his mind, this was fine and today was going to be good. It was going to be a good day today. In other news, more lighthearted news, that is. The morning was absolutely beautiful, the light perfectly crystalline, shining through the leaves of the trees, birds singing and the sounds of the river bubbling from far away, the scent of bread far away, and just barely there, but still as present as ever, and I can’t help but smile at the memory of watching Will bake with Niki, and how he had not laughed as much as he did that day, since...</p><p>
  <em>No. No, no, no. No more sad shit, Tommy, come on. It’s a beautiful morning, appreciate it, don’t ignore it. Who knows when I can see a morning this beautiful again, don’t mess it up with your thoughts, dude. Come on. You’re going to be all depressed in front of the bees? Unbelievable. Get it together, man. </em>
</p><p>I walk through the trees and just breathe in the daylight, allowing myself to take a deep breath and embrace the morning, joy blundering my thoughts and consuming me, hiding anything but the present, and blessing me with a feeling of carefree freedom. Freedom that rickets through me as I stab my sword into the ground and look up the trunk of an old oak tree, mind racing to analyze just exactly how hard the thing would be to climb, a smile settling along my lips, when the conclusion is 'very', but who cares? A little recklessness never killed anybody. My brain races as I throw my hand around a branch and lifting myself into the tree, going from branch to branch as quick as possible, mind set on going as high as the tree could handle, and grinning as I felt myself climb further and further away from the grass below me, until suddenly, my head breaks the tree line and I take a deep breath, laughing into the morning air as my face is alit by the sun, birds flying above me as foxes play far below me, barking and yipping and chasing each other’s tails. Sheep linger in a meadow off to my right, the L'Manberg river shining and shimmers with light, water rippling off blues and greens as fish jump in the big pools of water underneath old willow trees that had probably lived here for hundreds of years.</p><p>It was remarkable for me to realize that the world, throughout everything, was still alive and breathing. Every inch around me was a promise of that, and none of it’s beauty would be going anywhere no matter where I was, or what had happened, it just mattered if I took the time to notice it, and for a brief few minutes, there is no worries about what’s happening with Wilbur, or if Tubbo’s okay, or Niki, or anyone.</p><p>It’s just me and the way the forest looks in the morning and how peacefully perfect it is in this moment, and for once, I don’t feel guilty about that.</p><p>There’s no guilt to be found in paradise, after all. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. As It Was</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>What is betrayal, and why does the dishonesty of others burn me to my core? Setting my ribcage and brain aflame, the flowers that once held shelter deep in the pit of my chest bursting into flames and crumbling to ash, making me cough and sputter up blood and charred, dead flowers as the fire in my brain and body rages on, hellbent on making sure my own existence is left nothing but a dirty smudge of ash on a page.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the song for this chapter is 'as it was', by hozier, and I definitely recommend listening while reading, as it fits the mood of the scene, and helps add to just the general unease of the moment.<br/>enjoy! &lt;3</p><p>my loves, there is some mentions of ars*n, y*lling, bl**d and brief unstability. nothing graphic at all, but please be aware of that before reading!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>ACT I: The Deceit of Achilles</p><p>-WILBUR-</p><hr/><p>What is betrayal, and why does the dishonesty of others burn me to my core?</p><p>It sets my ribcage and brain aflame, the flowers that once held shelter deep in the pit of my chest bursting into flames and crumbling to ash, making me cough and sputter up blood and charred, dead flowers as the fire in my brain and body rages on, hellbent on making sure my own existence is left nothing but a dirty smudge of ash on a page. Like the pages in my notebook. Tommy had seen them, I was sure of it. He had seen what I’ve been planning, and done nothing. But did that mean he agreed with my choice? He didn’t like when I spoke of perfectly justified violence and destruction, as both him and Tubbo were yet to realize that everything is like a phoenix, and doomed to an end of its own, glorified or gory, take your pick, it was still fate. I’d learned through the years, that for one good thing to be created, countless others have to fall, and to fix what had been taken from me, something major had to go. Something had to give. Something had to surrender, to clear up the water. To even up the odds. </p><p>On another note, I can’t write songs how I used to anymore. I used to be able to sit alone for hours and come up with anything, and play them until my fingers bled, but not anymore. It just makes me angry now, angry enough to burn something to the ground, when I can’t put my thoughts into words that aren’t as scary backed with my guitar. I can pretend easily, and I’ve been doing it to keep Tommy safe for weeks, but faking that I’m fine with having my songs ripped from me? It feels unjust, and stupidly unfair, and it makes me want to scream if I allow myself to linger on it for longer than a few moments.</p><p>Every time I sit down to write a verse, the melody returns back to my stupid unfinished anthem, and it feels as if my brain has not quite caught on that Manberg is no longer mine. Her song is no longer mine to sing, either, and as much as that stings and twists my heart in knots, for the time being, I have to be content in watching from afar as they tear into her and destroy everything I created without second thought, or hesitation. Would I be strong enough to retaliate? Would I be strong enough to watch my home burn to the ground? Did I even deserve her? I don’t think I do, in all honesty, but I cannot watch it be ruined by someone else. I cannot sit idly by and watch as she is corrupted and ruined, and I know this will shatter my little brother’s world, but we cannot get her back with just easy negotiations and a steady mind. Not anymore.</p><p>Schlatt does not understand reason, I know that. I grew up with the man, for fuck's sake, and the only thing he understands is power, acquiring it, keeping it, and destroying anyone who has more than he does. He behaved like a dictator when we were kids playing tag by the sea. Safe to say, he’s grown up since then, and instead of growing out of that, he just grew into it, which was the biggest pain in the ass glow-up I’ve ever witnessed. I could have done without Schlatt’s fucking meddling in my country’s affairs. We’d brought him in as our campaign <em>sponsor</em>, we hadn't intended for him to run for the fucking presidency, the whole thing was wrong. It needed to burn. Everything he’d touched needed to be set aflame and made anew, it had to be. Schlatt had messed it up. I needed to fix it. I owed it to them. I owed it to all of them, really, because at the end of the day, it was me who’d been the one who’d completely and royally, fucked up. I had to make it right somehow. </p><p>In my efforts of distancing myself from Tommy and the incredibly uncomfortable morning interaction we’d had in the kitchen, I had walked to the very literal end of the ravine, slumping against the back of the wall, and sighing, exhaling a breath into the darkness as I pull the match box from my pocket, striking one, and watching as it dwindles to the bottom of the match stick, throwing it to the side right before it can reach my hand. </p><p>“Hello, Wilbur. It’s been a long time.” I freeze, hand inching for my sword as a cold flight of panic begins to trickle in down through my spine. It’s Dream. Dream’s come to talk to me, but why is that? Why is Dream always here when I have less of a mind that I had previously, a mind that did not sing of bees or the stars, but instead of how it would feel to set the entire town ablaze and watch as everything bad collapsed. Everything I’d failed, became wiped clean, ready to start… somewhat, anew. But now, Dream’s decided to show up here. In the way back of my little shame ravine. Is he here to ridicule me about how pathetic this whole situation is, or to speak to me, which would make him coming alone make sense. If he wanted to shame me about it, he’d bring an audience. That’s how Dream worked. Did he do that to make himself seem more friendly? Why was it somehow, I’m not sure how, but, why was it working? Why would I welcome someone that I knew full well was at odds with Tommy and, even though he dug through my shit and lied about it this morning, that kid remains to be my brother, friend, and ally. </p><p>Am I betraying him? Am I no better than those around me? Those who did the same to me without blinking an eye? Am I doing that to Tommy? Did he do it to me when he lied? It was nothing but a harmless fib, in all honesty. He’s told me and Techno plenty over the years, but what if this meant more? What if he was… what if I should try to not betray him by listening to his instinct with Dream. Tommy had told me over and over again that he very explicitly wanted us to have nothing to do with him. He’d taken enough from both of those boys for that to make sense, and my heart burns as the sounds of a long-ago promise I’d made to both Tubbo and Tommy about staying away from Dream, filter through my brain, all that time ago, in the medic tent of a battlefield after Tommy lost his first life. Maybe it was fine not knowing where Dream stands, because I very clearly don’t know where my morals are, or even if they’re still a third of what they were once, or where exactly said 'morals' had gone. Maybe Dream and I are just the same person, we’ve just fought alongside different people, and aligned ourselves with different sides of a coin.</p><p>“So the rumors are true, Dream. You do work from the shadows. And quite literally, too, it seems.” I say, watching as the subtle glow of his armor grows closer, his raspy chuckle filling the space around us, before a torch roars to life, the light feeling nefarious in his hand, the smile painted on his mask chipped and coarse, and feeling as if it was staring into my soul. The man radiates an unspoken omnipotence. It was obvious here who was truly holding court, even though this was where I was living.</p><p>“Yeah. How have you been, Wilbur? Exile treating you well?” His words grate against my already fraying nerves, fury rising to my heart, but I don’t dare say thing in retaliation of them. Not in front of Dream. I couldn’t lose it in front of him, because he was just being polite. Don’t be rude, Wilbur. If you push them all away, even Dream, then what will you do when you’re left alone with nothing and nobody but yourself?</p><p>“Tommy and I have been… just fine. Exile is… it is what is, I suppose.” Dream nods, turning his head to look up and into Pogtopia, the edge of the mask revealing the edge of an apparently stormy grey eye, set in an unreadable expression of irrefutable focus up into the cavern of Pogtopia. Something passes over him, and he seems to flicker, before he turns his face back to me, and I’m met, again, with the grin of his mask.</p><p>“Wilbur, you’re such a shit liar. Even when you were President, you could never lie to save your life, you just hid things from your friends until you simply couldn’t anymore. It was quite entertaining to watch, really. The new guy in charge is shit, by the way. He’s nothing like you, goes back on old deals, desecrates land he does not own. The disrespect is hard for me to tolerate, if I’m being honest. Mind if I sit?” His voice is careless, as if he just asked me the time of day, but they hit me like a truck. If Dream hated Schlatt, would he help me reclaim our home? Why would he help me get it back? There’s nothing in it for him. Not really.</p><p>“If you’d like.” I say, closing my notebook and pulling my compass towards me, making space for Dream as he slides down the wall, sitting next to me, and pulling his sword off his belt, yawning audibly as he sets it to the side, his enchanted netherite illuminating the cave in a a burst of distilled purple. It’s calming, reminds me of quieter nights, besieged by louder days of the war, where purple weapons glinted under starlight, and alarm ran high. Eyes searching for the man who is currently untying his quiver from his back, humming something calm, and quiet enough it is barely recognizable. </p><p>“Would it be fine with you if I extinguished your torch? I need to remove my mask, it’s hard to breathe with this thing on down here.” His words are quiet, tone relaxed, and for a moment, he has no resemblance to who I remember him as from the wars, or even Tommy’s stories.</p><p>“Yeah, that’s okay. I have no issue with that, you breathing is important, besides the sword gives off enough light for me, anyway.” The torch extinguishes immediately, my eyes blinking shut, shocked at the sudden change of light, and I hear Dream’s faint cursing coming from next to me, before I hear him chuck the thing to the ground, taking a deep breath, and turning to me, chuckling again, the sound is grating, and sounds like the wailing of ghasts and screams of endermen as they are each felled, each sound uttered drips in power and murderous slumber. I hadn’t even heard him speak a sentence yet, but the beginnings of his voice sound like the end of time, and what I decide to be the hum of hell. </p><p>“I will never like wearing that thing. Every time I put it on it feels like I’m lying, yet being so incredibly obvious about it. It’s protecting people, yes, but it still could be selfish. You know that struggle better than anyone, don’t you, Soot?” His voice rises and falls like the pools of water in the Nether, the edge of his words are hung with something feral, and shrill, and for the first time, I’m truly afraid of Dream. Nothing human sounds like this, nor should it, and maybe the knowledge of Dream’s inhumanity explained a bit more of my mind puzzle, and that, that was nice. His voice has a certain likeness to it I don’t necessarily mind, too, even though it did feel like so much and also nothing at all. It made sense why he had to wear a mask to hide all this, even though I’m sure he’d be able to do more without it, fear factor overruling actual reasoning. </p><p>“Wilbur, why are you so tense around me? Is it my voice that’s tripping you up? Not used to how it sounds, well you’d shit a brick if I ever let you catch a glimpse of my face, that’s for sure. But ignore that. You know that we’re both friends, here, right, buddy?  We both want the same thing. We’re both on the same side for now. Loosen up. Stress never got a man nowhere but his grave.” He wasn’t wrong. Too many thoughts could kill someone, just as too little, or one thought centered around one thing could do the same. But I wasn’t sure I liked him calling us ‘friends’, not even a little bit. His ‘we seem to be on the same side for now’, bit… I’d be lying if I said it didn’t set off alarms, but what if he meant it? I’d be right. My mind puzzle, was slowly coming together, and Dream was helping me assemble it, couldn't blame a guy for helping me out, honestly. </p><p>“It’s just a habit, Dream. Kept me and my family alive during the war. You say you’re on our side now, right? How do I know you’re not bluffing? How’d you even find us in the first place? Nobody knows about this place except for my brothers and father.” The silence is putrid, and I cannot hear a thing for a moment besides the distant trickle of water from somewhere above me, and the hissing of what sounded suspiciously like a fucking silverfish. I’d have to set the child on them when he came back from doing whatever it is that he’s doing. He’d have fun doing it, too, those stupid animals were absolutely infuriating.</p><p>“Wilbur, you recall the agreement I made with you when you became president? How I said that certain parts of land were not to be disturbed or upset by the general populous of L’manburg due to the historical value? Well, Schlatt has disturbed them. He’s ripped them to shreds. He’s destroyed places I used to go with my family before you were even born, and I cannot allow it to continue. It is one thing to take it out on me, but he is just doing this to make me angry. I’m on your side because you respected that agreement, even enforced it, at times. You had morals, strong ones, too. And even if I disagree with them most of the time, you still had them. Schlatt is nothing but corrupt and immoral, he holds no morals but his own greed. I need him gone, and so do you. So for now, we are on the same side.” I swear I can see a very faint grin on his face, the pupils of his eyes are blood thirsty, and I turn my head away, turning my attention back to the wall. What he was saying, made perfect sense, and it put another piece of the mental puzzle together for me. Dream is on our side. He’s on my side. That’s an advantage. It’s a small one but an advantage none the less.</p><p>“I saw Fundy the other day.” I turn my head to look at him, heart pounding, memories whirring around of my son. Why would he bring it up? Why would he involve himself in this? Nothing makes sense anymore. Not a goddamn thing. It was easier when we were at war, it was so much painfully easier. Your enemies were everybody who wasn’t fighting next to you, but now… now everything is just scrambled and jumbled and confusing and hard for me to understand, and nobody presents themselves from one dimension anymore, it’s just contradiction, after contradiction, and it’s making my head hurt. </p><p>“You did?” I whisper, raising my eyebrows and looking to the floor, frowning. I didn’t like that. I didn’t understand why Dream was bringing up my kid, he didn’t need to use him as a bargaining chip, Fundy was perfectly capable of fucking up Dream’s whole day all on his own, and I also have not spoken to my son in about two weeks, so Dream could try, but the situation just didn’t fit the bill in the least.</p><p>“Yeah, I did.” Dream chuckles, turning to look at me, a faint, ghostly smile just barely present on his lips, the room feeling like its spinning under my feet due to the foreboding hum that’s chained to his voice like a felon on a ball and chain. </p><p>“Sometimes I forget you did all this for that little boy, Wilbur, and then I remember and it gains the little respect I have for you back. That was a valiant thing you did for him, so why, and this has been bothering me for weeks, didn’t you get your revenge when he tore down the walls? I saw how angry you were, I felt your anger, and yet… yet you willed it to be quiet. Why? Fundy had betrayed you. So why didn’t you do something?” His voice drops, and he no longer gives the aura of the scary green entity behind a mask that holds the entire realm in his palm, he feels like he’s just an uncertain kid, who in all instances of the world, doesn’t know what to do when he’s faced with something that isn’t just straightforward emotions and allegiances. </p><p>“I didn’t need to get revenge. I was angry, yes, and I still am quite angry at him for that, but I guess he’s grown out of needing my protection, and that was his way of telling me. Besides, he’s my kid. That boy could shoot me, point blank, with a bow and arrow and I would be somewhat fine with it, I’d probably even deserve it, in all honesty. Maybe it would knock some sense into me, who knows.” My brain submerges me in flashes of little snippets of time, of Fundy, and Tommy, and Techno, and Phil, and Niki… of all those I hold allegiances too. The ones who will always have a guestroom to spare in my heart, no matter what. </p><p>“Oh. I see. So it was loyalty that kept you from retribution?” He sounds like Fundy and Tommy did when they were toddlers, asking questions a mile a minute, never even slowing to hear my answer, just firing on to the next like rapid fire. Fundy grew out of that, to some extent, and Tommy… well, Tommy very much did not. </p><p>“Yeah, something like that. I’d call it a mix of both love and loyalty, if I’m fully honest. Same thing with Tommy. Kid pisses me off, like he does everybody, but I love him, and it’s all in good fun, and revenge isn’t the answer with those you love, I don’t think.” Dream is quiet for a moment, thinking something over, water dripping in the distance.</p><p>“To be quite honest, Wilbur, I was not raised with the term 'love' being thrown around, but from where I’m standing, it doesn’t feel like you really truly are in love with them or the life that was left behind, anymore. It feels like you were once, and are clinging to that memory. Am I correct?” His voice has returned to being the very tick of time, a slow, cutting undertone being malicious in all the best ways, and sometimes hard to notice, and easy to throw around. The impact of how his voice is structured throws me for a loop long before his words can find their mark, the trueness of what he’d just said burning through my chest to my ribcage, and threatening to rip out my heart and make that room I’d made there, vacant, throwing everything from the ones I loved into a pile and setting it aflame.</p><p>“I’ve stayed loyal, Dream. I’ve remained aligned with that fucking country, and yet they abandoned me. How is that fair? I keep loving my son, even though I don’t understand what he’s doing with Schlatt, or why he’s done what he’s done, or if what we did with you and the discs was even worth it, because it doesn’t feel like it is, or even that it ever was, and yeah, yeah I’d say you are correct, but I don’t know what’s happening anymore. I can’t read a situation, because loyalty overrides my judgment, and I can’t understand a situation how I should because of fucking loyalty, and I don’t understand why, because everything made so much sense before, and now…”</p><p>“And now?” Dream’s voice sounds so incredibly tweaked, the sound is expectant, and the emotion unreadable, yet ever so fucking present, like the after effects of a potion, just hanging around someone’s head.</p><p>“And now there’s nothing. It’s just black and blue, and then there’s nothing. Do you think being somewhere with nothing but a vast spance of nothing is fun?” Dream’s quiet again. For such a long time that the echoes of my voice upon the cavern walls have faded into the shrieking and trilling of creatures nestled deep in the darkness of Pogtopia</p><p>“I’m not sure. Everyone’s nowhere is different, I’d say. The real question is do you take consolation in yours, Wilbur?” Dream says quietly, the silence filling in the gaps as the shock of his words begin to seep into my being, and I began to think. Was I content in what my brain created for me? It was a good question, it was a wonderful question, really, and I’m sure I’d delight in answering it, but my brain kept glitching, it kept glitching and going over my response options, weighing in the current situation, and the days past, and doubt started swirling up in my chest, making me sick with the heavy feeling of someone who I knew, in all states of the matter, even though I wish it wasn’t, was completely right.</p><p>“Sometimes.” I whisper, finding a rock on the floor and turning it over, anxiously in my hand, squinting as I try and see my way to the other side of the wall.  “Sometimes its peaceful, other times… other times it’s very, very loud. I can’t play guitar anymore, Dream. Did you know that? I can’t write about anything with a melody, or it’ll just go back to the unfinished anthem I wrote once of home, and I hate it, it’s like even though my place to sing about anything about that place is long gone. L’manberg refuses to let go of me. She refuses to release me, to let me live, and it hurts and it burns, because I don’t know who I’m betraying, I don’t know who I’m failing. Am I letting my country decay without doing a thing, or am I okay with watching it decay because I’m keeping my family, friends and allies safe by not involving myself with it anymore? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know how to fix this. Why can I not fix this? I built a country, I ran the fucking country, and yet I still have zero idea how the fuck I’m supposed to fix any of this.” A surge of anger compels me to get to my feet, I keep myself from pulling off my beanie to tug at my curls, and instead chuck the rock in my hand into the wall in front of me, the thing shattering, and the sound of destruction, even of something tiny, is somewhat soothing. Its good, sometimes. Knowing even though the situation is fucked I still have control over something becoming ruined, rendered down into a easier to process, purer state. It was poetic irony at its finest, and fanatically beautiful. </p><p>“Dream, I was so close, I was so fucking close, god! It’s so funny to me, it’s hilarious, it’s so hilarious, how easy things can fall to disrupt and ruin, not even obsidian walls kept human nature away from Manberg, but I could’ve! I could’ve, and I know that, and that thought pulls me underwater with every breath I try and wheeze out in a rhythm that isn’t note by note her symphony, because it’s ingrained into my very being, my hands know it by heart, and oh but isn’t today beautiful?” I shout, pacing as I walk, back-forth… back-forth, throwing my hands around me as I speak, the taste of gunpowder and blood hot in my mouth, making my throat burn with the bile of war-torn hate, hate that swirls and propels me forward, forcing the tiredness to the foreground.</p><p>“Oh, but shush! The birds are singing, don't be sad! Tommy saw my notebook, and I just want to go home, but I can’t! I can’t, and that’s hilarious, everything is just so hilarious, because if I can’t have her, <em>nobody</em> should! I sacrificed and died and fought for her independence, and won it back alongside my brother, so why do they have something they do not deserve? She doesn’t belong to Schlatt, or Quackity, or even fucking George-no offense, Dream.” My voice stills towards the end, my incessant ranting and pacing not ceasing for a moment, hands flying, eyes gleaming with fire and loose threats.</p><p> “No offense taken, Wilbur.” I ignore the poetic prose opportunity I could make around the sound of his voice, clutching my chest as my heart burns, and I think it would be good, if Schlatt were to watch Manberg burn. Funny, even. But I didn’t want to destroy <em> L’Manberg </em>, per-se. L’Manberg was my home. My brother’s home. His brother-in-arms’ home. I couldn’t rob us of it. I couldn’t. If I did, I’d just be just like Schlatt, just as cruel… just as condescendingly pitying. But then again, we’d been kicked out. Tommy and I had no home. We weren’t forced to hold our loyalty to Manberg. We could set the whole thing aflame and not even bat an eye, but could we? Could we stomach that? Could Tommy? Could Tubbo? </p><p>I don’t think Tommy could. I don’t think he’s yet to live in the present, as he still lives in the trees near our home with Mum, and the sunset horseback rides through the glade, and the sound of her discs that she'd play to calm us down, and later passed down to Tommy. He was still there, and lingering along the paths of L’manberg, and the trees, and the lake around the community house, and him and Tubbo’s bench, and I do, too, to an extent. I miss every inch of home. I miss Tubbo, Tommy and little Fundy, who’d toddle after the both of them, and cry out for me when they’d outrun him. Tommy would always come back for him. Every time. Picking him up and grin manically as his little nephew smiled as he lifted him to his shoulders as they played, going until they either couldn’t breathe out of laughter, or it was too dark to see the hostile <em>things</em> that lurk in the trees.</p><p>That was paradise. That was perfect, and beautiful, and enrapturing, and completely and utterly incredible, but why was that allowed to be taken from me? Why was I so upset about it as I am? I mean, I’d raised Fundy, in all my own rights, his mother had gotten out of the picture when he was young, and that was okay. Sally was of the sea, like my mother was of the wild. I knew full well that to tether either of them to something domestic would break their spirits, and so I had to let Sally go, but she was beautiful, and her son was the best thing to ever affect my existence in any way possible. And even then, it being just him and me, that worked for us, but did I know then that they’d be taken from me? Was I prepared for it? Was I prepared to watch my baby brother get shot in the head? I don’t think I was. I don’t think any of this is the kind of thing you can prepare for. War isn’t an academic test, and you can’t study for a tragedy, it will simply just catch you up in its wake, regardless. Sad thing now is, it was a whole hell of a lot more likely for me to have to watch them bury my son from afar these days, than to walk him down the aisle. Same with Tommy. The tragedy was overtaking us, and if we weren't careful, it would bear our own names. I’d raised Tubbo and Tommy just as much as I had my own son, and that was, in all aspects, their childhood home. They came of age with L’Manberg. They thrived in the beginning of a government, and grew up into good, moral young men who stood for what they believed in without a doubt, and I am so immensely proud of them, but the L’Manberg we knew years ago… it’s gone, and there is nothing we can do to get it back. Not one thing, and it was time we realized that, before we got ourselves killed trying to reclaim something that shouldn’t be reclaimed in the first place.</p><p>“But listen, listen…  Quackity and that fucker Schlatt didn’t dedicate their lives to founding her! I did! I did! And am I credited in nothing but spite? No, No I’m not and it burns and aches and... and how’s your morning, Dream? Youngest twin Wilbur is fine. Fundy’s dad is trying to not do something I’ll regret, and Tommy’s big brother is fine, he isn’t going anywhere, the kid can’t take knowing this, but oh do I wish I could go somewhere. I wish I could meet myself where I stand in my plane of nothing and prove him wrong, but I can’t, because he’s right. Creation only works for songs and pieces of art... and Manberg is <em>none</em> of those, now, and if she’s doomed to forever remain my unfinished symphony, so be it. My legacy died the moment they revoked my citizenship, it would be fitting if she died with me. It would be fitting if she died with me.” I trail off, listening to the silence and Dream’s quiet, and tidy breathing from behind me, paling in comparison of my own, which is ragged and hoarse, and when I make the mistake of inhaling too sharply, I hack out a slew of guttural coughing, stumbling to lean against the wall and catch my balance. My cough was a petty reminder of getting a fucking slew of explosions blown off in front of me, which I think is extremely funny, especially when I begin to taste a sordid combination of both gunpowder and blood on the tip of my tongue, and the man who caused the explosion, was currently watching me skyrocket to loony town, which… poetic irony, as much of a bitch that she is, I ain’t saying shit about her anymore, I’ve had enough.</p><p>“And are you dedicated to this? Do you want to see L’Manberg fall?” His voice is ghostly, and hinted with the edges of how it feels to wait in between the moments of sheer and utter chaos on a battlefield, basking in the silence, and relishing being able to hear the birds again, before it all starts anew, and your heart races, feeling as if it was breaking your rib cage, and stifling your heart.</p><p>“L’Manberg is gone, Dream. L’Manberg is dead. This is just some disrespectful post-mortem that’s just here to piss me off and drag everyone who knew what she was through the mud. But that’s not the point. That isn’t the point, the point is that I want to see <em> Manberg </em>fall. There is a clear distinction between the two. L’Manberg was something, full of everything I had, and everybody I knew and loved. Manberg just stands for nothing, with people I love, but don’t know anything about.” Unseen and hidden by Pogtopia’s seemingly endless wave of darkness, Dream’s smile is wicked and cruel, yet it fits him and everything primordial that drags after him like an archaic blade edged in weathered, evil enchantments, and fresh blood. His laugh is like a scythe, cutting through the silence with a scrap of boyish humility, and a whole three course meal of intimidation, and manipulation. Something he learned later, after he’d grown up, and these things that he carried on him like one would a compass or guitar, just wove their way through his words, and pierced his potentially, once-charming laugh. </p><p>Dream stays silent, the netherite illuminating just enough to make out milky white pupils, and the fine lines of what I assume to be old scars from previous battles. Nobody knows anything about Dream except for the fact that he likes green, wears a mask, and is fucking terrifying when you get him on your bad side, but even then, he’s made a pretty stable reputation of becoming known as reckless, merciless, and absolutely everywhere, even where you didn’t expect him to be. I mean, this was the same guy who made a game out of his friends hunting him from one corner of the world, to the other, and these matches, as terrifying as they seemed to me, were something that was referred to as manhunts, and, again, was played for <em>fun</em>. None of them were inherently forced to be on these said hunts. They just went after each other with everything they had and to the death across the realms, for sport. … for fun, really. Even though we were, apparently, temporarily allied, I remained terrified of him. Especially his… <em> hobbies. </em>Why am I distracting myself with mentally gathering the arcane knowledge I have of Dream from the main problem? The main problem being… I don’t know. Maybe I’m too close to the situation, maybe I just need to stop and just sit, but if I do that there will just be thoughts. And those are dangerous, those are the reason why I ruined my notebook, and it worked, it drained my mind, but Tommy broke the spell, and nothing makes any sense, I am not making any fucking sense. </p><p> To tie the short not really analytical essay paragraph back to something to even have one loose end be finished and done with, god that made no sense, nothing makes sense, but what is sense? It’s not Schlatt’s fucking currency he pulled out of his ass, that’s another form of the word, and that form is easier to quantify, it’s easier to count, and even though I hate numbers, and math, math seems easier than not being to understand your own mind. I spent years hollowing it out to be safe enough, and now its encroaching back upon me, and maybe Pogtopia will do the same, because if one safe space discards you, wouldn’t they all follow in suit? It would make sense. Maybe they’re delaying. Stuff is happening, I know that. Thoughts still congregate, and separate, and debate loudly, through hisses and shrieks, but there is nothing there but darkness. You can’t use a lantern to light up something that’s grown so dark there’s no air to breathe, the candle will just go out. Was my fucking candle out? Yeah. I think it had been out a while, but nobody wants to admit when they’re having a rough go, so I didn’t, either. There wasn't a point, I had to be strong. I was not allowed to crumble, even though my entire way of life just had. Right in front of my eyes.</p><p>I’m somebody’s brother. Somebody’s dad, someone’s son. But, as those things were known to me as first and foremost, what else did I have but them? Would I have spooked them with it all, or would they have been fine with it? There’s no way of knowing, now, not one way, so I suppose I don’t have to make it make sense anymore. I don’t have to put things on the tableau to argue with logic, I could just do it. I was a president, once, wasn’t I? There’s no reason why a president can’t take revenge. I could be the first, and as I stumble back against the wall, laughing as Dream just sits next to me in silence, listening to the stillness of Pogtopia, disrupted by my hacking, maniacal chortling, hysteria flowing through me like L’Manberg River. </p><p>The air is cold all the way back here. I think I’d like it more if there was a fire, but for now, I was fine merely staring up into the abyss of Pogtopia, hacking up blood and what feels like small, microscopic pieces of shrapnel I always thought had all been painstakingly pulled out of my chest, sliver by sliver, and stitched up by Niki until they give me trouble again. They were put there by one of the many explosions I'd been privy too, and I guess the contemplation of starting another brought their memory back. I start laughing, the laugh combining with the choking and hacking until it was just… chaos. A soldier’s nightmare was being this loud over something so… so… completely and utterly destructive, yet on the other hand, so incredibly stupid and foolish.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>alivebur is very fun to write. there's so many places you can take his character, it's really enjoyable to write his chapters, because it's just so complex, it's definitely a challenge, but a really fun one!</p><p>thank you so much for reading, this chapter is one of my favorities, I kind of adore how I characterized Dream especially in this situation, so yeah! if you have any feedback, feel free to comment, and thank you so much for showing so much interest in this story, it truly means the world!</p><p>as always, I hope your existence in this moment is very good.<br/>el &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Petricor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Nether takes the cake for one of the most unpleasant places I have been too, ever. The entire place reeks of old battles from years past, vengeful pools of lava perched wherever it chooses, as if the angel of death’s much worse cousin was around every curve. Heat and flame singe at my clothes and hair, sweat and small ringlets of blood from my slight run in with some Nether creature I can’t recall the name of, held around my face like some sort of warrior’s angel halo.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this chapter's song is 'petrichor', by ludovico einaudi. 'petrichor' is a term that was coined by austrailian scientists in 1964 to describe the scent of rain, by the way, fun little vocab word for your time.<br/>i sincerely hope you enjoy, and i am sorry this took so long to get out, power has been incredibly unreliable as of late! &lt;3</p><p>!!please read!!<br/>my loves, i am so happy at how well received this work is, putting out my stuff has always been anxiety inducing for me, and it truly means the world to me knowing people are enjoying it. i would like to preface your reading by making sure you are aware that this chapter deals with heavy topics. do know that nothing is explained in detail, or even blatantly flat-out described, besides for metaphors and loosely-descriptive language, meaning that there is no g*re in this chapter at all. there is, however, extremely light descriptions of d*ssociation &amp; d*realization, very light mentions of childhood m*dical tr*uma &amp; m*dical m*lpractice, mentions of bl*od, discussed d*ath, hinted-at ab*uction, and brief mentions of going nonverbal, not explicitly described at all. however, everything is all very light and barely touched upon in depth, but if at any point you feel like a personal boundary of your own has been crossed and you cannot finish reading for your mental sake, please feel free to do so! self advocation is very poggers, and so is commenting for a chapter summary, as i really don't mind, and really just want to make sure everyone is a-okay!<br/>very much love, and as always, i truly hope you enjoy this chapter, it is one of my current favorites!<br/>stay safe, darlings,<br/>el &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>ACT I: The Deceit of Achilles</p><p>-TECHNOBLADE-</p><hr/><p>The Nether takes the cake for one of the most unpleasant places I have ever been to. The entire place reeks of battles from hundreds of years past; vengeful pools of lava perched wherever it so chooses, as if the angel of death’s much-worse cousin hangs around every curve. Heat and flame singe at my clothes and hair, sweat and small ringlets of blood from my slight run in with some Nether creature I can’t recall the name of, held around my face like some sort of warrior’s halo. I’d been down here for hours. The heat messing with my mind and causing me to have to break far more often than I’d like, so I didn’t pass out in literal hell, which, from personal experience, sounds about as fun as you’d expect. Truth be told, the only thing keeping me from not passing out due to the sheer exhaustion of going without sleep for a surplus of forty-eight hours, was the very hopeful prospect of a wealth of netherite just barely tethering me to the task at hand, and although I was becoming increasingly tired of angrily swinging my near-broken pickaxe at the wall, turning my eyes away so I wouldn’t get blinded by the stray bits and pieces I’m painstakingly cleaving from the wall in, again, a hope to find even a spare scrap of what I had come down here for in the first place.</p><p>I’d had better days in the netherite mining field, yeah. But truth be told, even just doing something calm and idiotically mundane, was better that sitting at the ravine and waiting for nothing to happen pursued by worry, and an aching sort of useless boredom fed by pointless leisure. It was hard to relax, what with them being louder today than they had in a while, and I wasn’t necessarily sure if that was because I was in the Nether, by myself, and both things always succeed in making <em> it </em>worse. Regardless of why, they had been whispering, shouting and chaotically demanding unseemly things of me amidst me just trying to mine in a relative peace, which had me resort to rubbing my temples, in an attempt to try and get them to shut up for even a single moment.</p><p> I raise my pickaxe above my head, and angrily swing it into the wall, turning my face away as stray pieces of jagged netherack fly up around me, angrily biting at my lip as the shouting grows louder, the pieces of shattered wall seeming to slow as a cloud of dizziness hits and I seem to be falling in slow motion, my brain walking me all the way out of my body and down the path far behind me. Walks were nice. I liked walks. I didn’t understand how they happened, but I was in the Nether. The Nether was bad. Didn’t the Accident happen here? It did. No. No. I can’t remember that now, it’ll make them get worse. Can I go back to mining, now, please?</p><p>
  <em> Are you safe? No, of course he’s not safe. He’s here. Do you even remember what happened here? No, but he is. You remember, don’t you, Techno? </em>
</p><p>“No. Not now, please.” I whimper, choking on panic and fury, the memory clouding my senses, and I feel my body as if I was far away, collapse to the ground, panic and instinct coursing through my body, trying to scramble a plan together. I couldn’t fight, I wasn’t somewhere blocked off, if something came around the bend, I’d get fucking slaughtered… <em> Wilbur needs me back soon. You can’t do this right now, please. Please just wait till I get home.  </em></p><p><em> Techno, maybe if you stopped fighting it, you wouldn’t have the need to panic about it later. Besides, we never die. Technoblade never dies. You never die. Blood for the Blood God. Blood for the Blood God. Destroy something Techno, Destroy something or we’ll make you repent. Seek chaos, provoke blood lust. We believe in you, Techno. </em>I feel <em>cold</em>. The slight hum of an air conditioner rises above the dull thud of silence, the light around me shifts from red and unpredictable to bright, yet dull, and the white walls and wispy recollections of the place made my head hurt. </p><p><em> Do you remember the pain of it all, Techno? Do you remember how we became real because you begged for someone who wasn’t there to hear? How can you bear to ignore us when we saved you? That isn’t fair, Techno. That isn’t fair.  </em>I remember the screams. I remember my own, and the ones that I cannot recall the faces of their owners. The sensation of having my mind be ripped from my head, torn apart, and put back in place, and then I remember the noises. The quiet humming and whispering that would echo from the back of my mind, like the whispers from a cave at midnight. I remember the steady feeling of power coming hand in hand with the sensation of molten hot nails being driven into my spine, one after the other. It wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t pretty. It was the feeling of having my sense of self exploited, and my mind... altered, I suppose you could say.</p><p>“You’re right. You did save me, but I cannot recall what from.” My voice trails off, and a flash of sadistic smiles peer down at me, as I can do nothing but lie there. There’s a faint sound of yelling, from voices I didn’t understand, and from voices who I knew, and <em>remembered</em>, and who I belonged too. I remember leaving wherever I was with another child, holding hands with someone, or maybe it was a something, who is permanently gone from my memory, and smiling up at the now-empty shadow of a silhouette as they lead me and the other boy through flame and fire, until the silhouette brought me home. </p><p><em> And why can’t you remember, Technoblade? Is that a petition to your weakness? Did you block it out because you cannot handle it? Pathetic. Remember it. Consume the memory like the souls of those you felled. Delight in it like you did their blood. Is it beautiful?  </em>I would be lying if I said I ignored them. You can’t when it gets too loud. Not when they’re screaming and shouting and singing, and making a whole scene. They reminded me of the souls I had slaughtered, at least by their voices,  who’d remained with me, a shriek making me wince and choke on my breathing. I was trying my best to repress a solitary sob from the bottom of my throat. I don’t know if it was from a ghast in the distance, or from my own brain, but the noise still makes me want to stab something. Violently. That always seemed to work. </p><p>I was with Wilbur when I was taken, I know that for a fact. We were about eight, Dad was cooking lunch with Mom back home, and we’d decided to just go walking around the perimeter of the property. Sometime during that outing, Wil had scaled a tree trying to reclaim the arrow he’d shot up into the top boughs a few days prior, and I’d waited below, attention turned up to my twin, who did his best to not topple out of the tree. Because I’d been so involved in coaching Wilbur’s safe ascent, I didn’t know they were behind me, until I was falling, and Wil was screaming my name as he jumped from the tree, ankle appearing to have twisted on impact. I remember screaming as I watched him limp towards me, eyes wide and arm reaching out, but I do not catch it. I just keep falling. The voices mumble their approval. They liked how Wil tried to save me. They always did when they made me go over the memory, as if in a last-ditch attempt to not let me forget it. </p><p>To me, the fall felt like days, but it might have been hours, or maybe my recollection is correct. Maybe it really was days, but all I know is I hit the ground when I’d stopped falling, the impact knocking the wind out of me, my ribcage feeling as if it was caving in on me, my lungs refusing to breathe, and my organs buffering in their function. <em>You were in pain? </em> I nod, swallowing as the flash of turning my head to observe the free lava flow to my left, my skin feeling as if it was aflame. <em> Did you kill those who put you there? Did Wil help? I like when Wil helps us. He is nice. It hurts still, Technoblade. </em>They weren’t wrong. It did still ache from time to time, and if I hit it wrong, it would burn, and constrict, and I’d collapse to the ground in a fit of memory-induced pain, if I couldn’t help it, which was a rare occassion. Control and strength, were alas, not enough to banish bad memories. </p><p>I do not know how long I laid there. I remember the passing of a ghast overhead, and the kaleidoscope of tears I had to look up at her with, my eyes blurring in my head, and I remember telling myself I’d survive over and over again, like a broken disc. I know he wasn’t there, but I remember talking to Wil, his voice had kept me distracted, and calm before <em>They</em> descended down upon me, jeering and smirking. The voices whisper uncomfortably, it is an familiar, grating shriek compared to the familiar hum that has echoed in the back of my mind since. They know this part of the story well. It’s their least favorite part, and, to this day, I am not able to grasp the reason why. I remember solemnity passed between those who walked with me, forcing me up from where my leg lay twisted and arm bruised, and practically dragging me through the Nether, an action that for me as an eight year old, it made no sense. It made no sense why I wasn’t allowed to talk with them, or ask where I was, or where my twin brother was, where my Dad had gone, or whenever I said that my mother needed me back home in time for dinner, I would be shushed. </p><p><em> It wasn’t nice when they refused to let you ask where our Wil went. That was mean. They could have at least been kinder about it. Their job wasn’t to be kind. They were being cruel because they could. Keep up. </em>I don't like that one, it seems repetitively irate at all the wrong things. For now, it’s just blinding light, and freezing cold, which was a rough transition from the fiery warmth I’d been in for, again, possibly hours. I remember something cold going into my neck, and the gentle sound of beeping from inside my skin, before everything fades into the bright white hospital lights. I wonder where that thing went, or even what it was, if my theory is correct and it is actually a locating chip of some sort, because I don’t remember saying anything about it to Dad, I just remember him being alarmed at the blood seeping down my back, staining my shirt from a floral based grey, to a dark, dreaded crimson. <em>The man who saved you cut it out of your neck.  That’s why the scar is there. He cut it out of both of you so he could take you two back up to the overworld, the Terre, as your father calls it. It wouldn't let you leave if it remained, so he cut it out. It did it painlessly, and both of you forgot it had even happened, really. </em></p><p>I don’t know who the second one they’re talking about is, but if they’re this convinced of a plot to a memory, I may as well not argue with them unless I want to add three hours onto this already four hour brain headache I’m going to wind up dealing with because I’m remembering my childhood, which is an absolute and complete no no, as far as I'm concerned. Or at least, the bad stuff. The good things was free reign for me to relive, but some things... some things we should only be cursed in reliving once. </p><p>Waking up to the stinging scent of anesthetics was confrontational, to say the least, especially when it is accompanied by, what I assume is an operation light, is so bright my vision tunnels, and the nip of a needle is the last thing I can recall before I go blind, and feel nothing. This seemed longer when I was there. The feeling of something that isn’t supposed to be here, spreading throughout my body, assaulting my nerves and making them sting and burn, crying out as I lose feeling in my own body. I think at one point, when the pain of a knife hit me from somewhere I knew not where, I tried to scream. To make an effort to shake whatever it was away from me, but nothing worked. My body didn’t want to respond to me, and I was trapped. Trapped in both a body and mind that seemed to cease function. I have never been comatose to the best of my knowledge before, besides a brief concussion when Wil had hit me in the head with the cupboard. But when my own body and mind refused to respond to me to a point where I couldn’t even scream, it genuinely felt like I was. Stuck permanently in just lying there whilst feeling lifeless, and useless, my instinct alone calling for Wilbur, and my Mom and Dad, who I knew, weren’t coming. In all honesty, this is when my memory gives out completely besides little flashes that I’m not sure if they’re either real things that occurred, or just something that I dreamed up, and that little eight-year-old brain just kind of accepted as truth and ran a marathon of painful deception with it. I remember bars. And padded rooms. And the sound of IV stands grating against a floor. Scratching at the corner of a room with a stray pebble someone I couldn’t remember besides a burned-out silhouette had wordlessly handed to me. All of that was very real. I knew that for certain.</p><p>I may not remember anything to do with exactly what happened then, but I’m pretty sure the feeling of just devoid sensations that I cannot possibly place to a proper adjective that would make any comprehensible sense, because it is just not something I can explain, but I don’t think the vivid as all hell memory of experiencing a grade of pain so overly exerted, was not something an eight year old could think up. That was real. I knew full well that that was painfully real, quite literally, too, which could be funny, if that thought didn’t make me absolutely sick to my stomach. I can barely remember the kid who’d given me the pebble, I remember being protective of them, as I’m pretty sure whoever it was significantly younger than me, but by what exactly, I wasn’t sure. I remember their voice being a bit… off. Not entirely human, not entirely otherwise, just sort of teetering somewhere along the middle, sounding a bit distorted, and sometimes downright modulated when they got upset, and I wrack my brain, trying to recall something more about their appearance than just a silhouette without a full, real voice, but I come up with absolutely nothing. The pebble kid deserved my remembrance, and I was ashamed that that was something I could not give them. After all this was over, I might go search for them, maybe. To try and thank them, I don't know, it just seems like a loose end that deserves a bow.</p><p>Not a thing besides being led out of wherever I was by someone tall, with a deep, extremely unnatural voice, who led us both home, and took me back to my mother, father and Wilbur, as if it never even happened, but yet it did. Phil and Wilbur had trouble catching on to the fact that it did, maybe even more so than me. I guess that isn’t their fault. Losing a child for that long, at that age, and then having them magically turn up one Tuesday morning drastically genetically altered on a anatomical level, and with a newly scuffed mental health problem that fucking attacks you  like a rabid dog on cocaine, was extremely shocking, so that was very fair. My mother, however, was different. She did not need time to adjust to the fact that I was <em>different</em>, that I was a year prior. I don't even believe she cared that I was, either. She was just relieved that I was home, and took care of any and all of the shit that came from that, even if it was hard to hear, or witness. Her and Wil did their most, and Dad did everything he could, even though he wasn't the best with that kind of stuff. But, neither am I, so... the thought is what counts, at the end of the day.</p><p>Things go back to being quiet, suddenly and randomly, leaving me alone to the newly dredged up thoughts and panicked remains that claw at my chest, to my relief, they had apparently gotten tired of toying with me, and had just… abandoned me where I sit, back pressed against a, admittedly very cramped and sharp corner of the netherrack cave. My pickaxe is discarded on the floor, lying where I had dropped it after stumbling backwards into the wall. My breathing is ragged, and my hand grips onto the fabric gathered at my knees, rubbing my eyes and forcing myself to take a deep breath, doing my best to compartmentalize everything I don’t want to remember that’s I’d let aimlessly flit around my mind. <em>It’s time to go home, Technoblade. </em>It’s very faint, just a shadow of something audible from the back of my mind, but its gentle. And it doesn’t scream, or demand anything bad of me, and I have no reason not to listen, because their voice is pretty, and calm, and beautifully careful in the words it designs. It reminds me of my mother, in all truth, and how she was back when me and Will were little. She never stayed long, but she’d come home as much as she could, and we didn’t mind, not all the time at least. But, I mean, in her own credit, our mother was a warrior, a wanderer. She had her heart tethered to all the wilds of the world. Dad told me and Wil that it wouldn’t be fair to keep her from that, because even though she loved us, more than the constellations that guide sailors who go out to sea, she loved to see the world, too. Even when she was still with us, she did all she could to remain in the wilderness, spending her days teaching us how to survive and how to ride horseback and shoot a bow simultaneously because Wil thought it was cool. </p><p>Growing up, she was kind, and gentle in all the most wonderful ways, but had a weathered and rough side about her, and it would come out when the day was nearly over, the fire making her looking far more tired than she seemed, the weary expression dwindling the moment she saw me staring, and it became replaced almost immediately with a smile that glowed with pride and joy as she remembered what she has, instead of the things she'd once had. She passed when Tommy was three and when me and Will were thirteen. At least, that's what we have assumed happened. She went out on an expedition one day, and three months later, around the time when she was supposed to return home, she simply just did not. And my mother, as enamored with the wild as was, would have come home as on time as possible for her family. There was no reason she didn’t come home, besides the fact that she had gotten herself killed in the middle of nowhere. I do not remember how I reacted to that news, but I do not think it was good, because when my memory gap clears up, I remember Wilbur playing guitar in the corner with a bandaged wrist in a sling, and a notebook that I recalled looked a lot less full before whatever happened, <em> happened.  </em></p><p>I get to my feet, and walk to my cloak, pulling it on as if I’m in a daze, keeping my eyes fixated on the ground as I shrug the pickaxe over my shoulder, strapping it to my back, and beginning to find my way out of the cave, abandoning anything I was originally planning for today, and just sort of aimlessly wander towards the direction I believe to be home, loose shards of memories I’d purposefully long-buried, sting as they whip across my memory, trying to bring me tumbling down to the netherrack floor again, as I was painfully embraced by nothing but what was a recollection of my own muddled past. I pull myself out of the cave, eyes flickering around my peripheral, taking a long moment to observe whatever might be behind me, waiting for an attack, hand gripping the hilt of my sword. My breathing slows when I begin to have more of a scope of my surroundings, two pig men a significant distance behind me, and, in their usual fashion, paying no mind to me. The distant sounds of a ghast wailing pierces my ears, my brain sourcing the cries to be nearly two miles away from me, tops. This revelation makes me take a deep, relieved breath and pull my hood up over my head. Beginning to trek through the nether, humming gently as my eyes flit over the sight of the ghostly, flame-coated horizon, lava crackling and bubbling around me, and making the air smell like brimstone and burning plant life, or maybe, even, bodies. Everything smells like death in the nether, which makes it’s hard as all hell to pinpoint smells accurately down here. </p><p>~</p><p>The faint purple glow of the portal is finally coming into view, and I finally allow my nerves to calm down however slightly at the sight of it, relieved that the memories I’d had to dredge up not even five minutes prior, were slowly trickling away to the back of my mind. I guess I couldn’t keep being sad while on high alert, but for whatever reason, the episode from earlier didn’t feel like it was over. It felt like it was delayed, as if it was waiting for me to be relaxed enough to strike while I least expected it, but I didn’t have time to worry about that. I needed to get home, put my stuff away and make dinner so my two stray brothers I have been caretaking due to recent demand of them being kicked out of their home, didn’t starve to death. That was a priority. That was definitely a priority. </p><p>The subtle beginning of sound started to warp and distort, slowly drags me out of my puzzle, and I shake my head, blinking and turning around to squint at the horizon one last time. Everything looks changed once its set ablaze, but yet the Nether retained her flames, and had not changed in hundreds of years, remaining how it was from long before any of us, maybe even Dream, became a reality. I sigh, and chuckle under my breath before exhaling long and slow, before I step through the portal, and the world dissolves into a muddled vortex of sound and shrill, inaudible mumblings. I open my eyes to the sun, and the late morning skies of the overworld fill my senses, the sun nearly blinding me, lungs deflating in relief, a small, tired smile on my face as I step down off the portal frame and walk through the forest, hand dragging behind me on the trees. The day, however waning, was still beautiful and young, and it hurt me physically to have to say goodbye to the sun for the second time today, and duck under the rock overhang. </p><p>I’m met with cold stone, lit lanterns, and a gentle, quiet hum that never stood for a moment when we were children, not with Wil and Tommy in the house, those two didn't believe in the pleasant little thing called <em>silence</em>. But, things change. Wil became quieter as we got older, and turned more reserved, demeanor shifted to that of a president, instead of just the boy with a guitar, eyes full of stars and the fierce adbunance of a dream he hadn't yet gotten around to fulfilling. And Tommy? Tommy’s entire being had shifted. He’s on edge constantly, now. Flinching at sudden movement or raised tempers, and gradually, he got more tired from lack of sleep, and I’d catch him forcing himself to stay awake more and more, just to keep away from everything dangerous that prowls around one’s mind while asleep, and now, there was more than one brother who awoke screaming about the past.</p><p>Walking the spance of the portal room, brain burning at the very sight of that stupid obsidian square, I unload my things inside of an ender chest, yawning and rolling my eyes at how exhausted I felt, brain buzzing from lack of internal input. Right before I’m about to turn away and retreat upstairs to make my siblings dinner, the breath catches in my throat at the sight of my twin brother, looking as if he’d been dragged through the mud behind a horse. He looked smaller than he was, thinner, maybe, but I’m not sure exactly how. I’d made sure I kept both of them fed and cared for, but maybe it was the stress. That would make sense. Regardless of what it is, exactly, he’s curled up in the back corner, barely visible, eyes sunken, cheeks pale, hair completely tangled and knotted around the edges of his beanie, the thing practically caked in mud, turning it from a crimson red, to a lighter maroon. His hands are tremoring, gripping a long extinguished cigarette between his pointer and ring finger, the thing nearly pulverized into ash due to the severity of his grip. He seems to me as if he’s freezing, not even realizing I was walking towards him until I crouch down next to him, taking away the cigarette from him and dropping it to the ground, crushing it under my boot. I enclose his hand in my own, stilling his tremors to the best I can, his breathing loose and breaking, his eyes, once appearing to be glimmering in the rays of amber gold sunlight, are now pale and loose, not being able to focus on one thing for long periods of time, or deviate from staring off, giving him the appearance of being just absolutely lost, like a toy sailboat that had been dragged out to sea. </p><p>“Wilbur? Are you okay?” I ask him, brushing his hair out of his eyes and trying to delicately undo the tangles that frame his face. The other employed in the task of trying to keep my brother’s tremoring in his hands down as much as possible. He doesn’t respond, he just turns away from me, a sad, distant smile spreading across his lips, that, for some reason, are tinted red with blood. He was probably biting at his lip to a point where he literally just lacerated the skin right off with his teeth, he did that a lot, it was another one of his constant little habits, but even then, it worried me. </p><p>“Will, buddy, are you okay to talk to me, or are you staying quiet for a bit?” His eyes raise to meet mine, a shadow of relief passes through him, as if he was just know realizing that it was, in fact me. His shoulders appear to almost fall, his posture slunching over, and it appears as if, even for a moment, he was allowed to breathe. He shows me a two with his fingers, and I nod, tapping his hand that I understood, as I take a deep breath, and sit down next to him. He solemnly rests his head on my shoulder, and I smile. Hand tapping out some sort of melody of his onto my palm. He stays quiet as I sat with him, seemingly content in just having me next to him, even though we remain huddled together in a comfortable, gentle silence, and I don’t mind when I hear his breathing settle into that of sleep. I treat him falling asleep on my shoulder like you would when a very mentally exhausted kitten falls asleep on your lap, and how when it happens, and if you know any better, you don’t move. You barely even breathe. And I didn’t. I remained on the floor with my brother, pulling my cape over him and not being able to restrain a quiet, stray laugh when I catch Wil smiling as his face is all smushed and stupid-looking as he rests on my shoulder, breathing settling further and further until I'm certain he's fast asleep.</p><p>Sometimes, now more than ever, it was hard to remember my brother, 'the soldier', or my brother, 'the leader', or my brother, L’Manberg’s founder and president, because he had just cracked, like one of our mother's old tea plates, and when the pieces that shattered had been picked up, there were some that were never found, doomed to be lost somewhere unattainable. And even with all his titles, he would forever remain my brother, and that was the same with whatever path he had reasoned himself down, even though I would probably learn to regret that choice when it was all said and done, and we were met; face to face, with the gentle chorus of the end. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>my masterplan for this is growing, and oh goodness gracious, is all i have to say about that.</p><p>thank you so much for reading, this chapter is absolutely one of my favorities, I love writing Technoblade, and I am attached emotionally to family dynamic, even if it is pretty unhappy, if you couldn't tell, so yes to that, I enjoy breaking canon sometimes, and this is one of those instances. can you guess who the other child was? or who rescued them? it's a whole doozy, give me your theories, darlings, i'd love to read them. about this, and also lore, smp brain rot go brr.</p><p>as always, I hope your existence in this moment is very good!<br/>much love,<br/>el &lt;3</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Hymn For The Weekend</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It’s late afternoon by the time I head towards home. The general rejoice of the morning had long faded into early afternoon slumber. A gentle hum of cicadas, and heat of the sun battering down on me through the tree foliage, clings to the day, a slight breeze making the heat be not completely unbearable, and I find myself craving to return to the chill of Pogtopia, the gentle cold of the cavern and homely flicker of the lanterns hanging along the rafters. </p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this chapter's song is 'hymn of the weekend', by coldplay. i chose this song because it is very pretty and reminds me of a very pretty august sunrise. also, today's chapter is a considerably shorter because i had work, btw, and wrote it on my lunch break!!<br/>enjoy &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>ACT I: The Deceit of Achilles</p><p>-TOMMY-</p><hr/><p>It’s late afternoon by the time I head towards home. The general rejoice of the morning had long faded into early afternoon slumber. A gentle hum of cicadas, and heat of the sun battering down on me through the tree foliage, clings to the day, a slight breeze making the heat be not completely unbearable, and I find myself craving to return to the chill of Pogtopia, the gentle cold of the cavern and homely flicker of the lanterns hanging along the rafters. I was delaying the inevitable. Playing with time as if it cared, and rejoicing when it budged by mere inches. I turn around, taking a last look around at the world and how it looks in the afternoon, before the distant sound of yelling snaps me out of it, and my shoulders drop into those of a soldier, back upright and jaw set, teeth biting my tongue, trying to drown the riptide of panic that was slowly pulling me under the waves. </p><p>I roll under the overhang, pulling myself out and through, someone’s raised, panicked voice met by a deep one, speaking slowly, carefully, and quietly enough so that I cannot make out what’s being said even if I wanted too. I stash my sword in a wall crevice, eyes lifting towards whatever verbal altercation is going on in the damn panic ravine again, because nobody can seem to catch a break round these parts. There was no violent altercation going on in our kitchen. It was just Wilbur and Techno bickering about something, his notebook open in front of him to a creaseless, blank page, a quill half discarded, as if he'd been interrupted halfway through, his hands waving wildly around his head as he sternly tries and proves his point to Techno about whether or not raw potatoes are poisonous or not. This had been a debate that had been going on nearly every night for about a week while Techno made us dinner. That was because we’re, according to him, ‘helpless children who learned no practical life skills besides politics and war.’ Which is… not wrong, just a bit too much on-the-nose for me and Wil’s liking, so I call him a menagerie of insults and try to set him on fire, while Wil finds something stupid to argue with him about and runs with it. I think he just keeps at it for the continuity of the bit, now, which is respectable. </p><p>“Wilbur, please. For the last time, do not eat the stray pieces of a raw russet potato. It will not be funny, you will just get sick, and I will absolutely not be dealing with that on top of everything else.” Techno says sharply, waving an evil looking cooking instrument that I could not name in Wilbur’s direction, who’s looking like the cat who swallowed the canary as he just sort of perches on the edge of the table, chin in his hands, looking like the pinnacle of innocence while he just idly provokes our brother into aggravated assault and battery, which is something he’s always been exceptionally good at. I somehow manage to slink into the kitchen unnoticed, both of my older brothers enraptured in their potato argument, so much so that not even Wilbur, who I am literally sitting across from, has not caught on to my presence yet. I take this opportunity while unnoticed to untie my bandana shaking it out quietly and folding it into a tiny square, Tubbo’s very rough embroidery spelling out my name.</p><p>It makes me smile, thumb ghosting over the stitches, I remember how proud he’d been of it, spending every possible hour while we weren’t deployed to the front, working on the matching bandanas. And honestly, even though it was something so simple, it was the best thing anyone’s ever given to me. I am going to real, for a bit, here. I miss him. Everyday there’s something I know he’d make better, from this morning’s excursion, and the bee hive I found that would make him whoop and holler in delight, and I know he’d absolutely love climbing that tree, and I would probably pretend to fall out just to make him laugh and get subsequently yelled at for being an idiot. I liked the quiet, sure, but I liked it even more when he disrupted it with some silly little idea that I loved every piece of, but he didn’t get exiled. He was home. And in a way, I was glad for him, but I knew deep down, that it would be easier for him if he had been.</p><p>The third night of my exile, I’d snuck away and found him wandering the path near our bench, his hair was combed back into something just so unlike him, suit perfect and unstained, and tie looking as if it was tight enough to cut off his breathing.  Everything about him, now… it just felt wrong, like something once delicate had been torn out by the root, and thrown to the curb, abandoned. He didn’t feel like the Tubbo I knew and grew up with, he just felt like there was something wrong, that he wasn’t telling anyone. Maybe it would just be easier on me and I'm being selfish because I want to cause problems on purpose while supervised, but whatever it is, I don't like it at all. Whenever he came to report back to Wilbur about what exactly was going on in the White House with Schlatt, Quackity, and Mr. George Not Found, himself, that feeling was amplified tenfold. He’d greet me just like he had since we were toddlers, but he’d hug me tighter then he would before, instead of just reaching out for my hand whenever he wanted to hold it, he’d ask, and if I didn’t make sure to keep my voice even and calm when I answered yes, he’d shrink away, and I’d have to tell him he didn’t do anything wrong, and assure him of it, until he winks at me, and all of a sudden, he’s <em> 'fine' </em>again. Which I know is just a load of fucking <em>bullshit</em>. </p><p>He was fine just saying his hellos and good mornings, and cursing out silverfish for existing, and the like but the moment he was reminded of what he was there for, he’d bristle, eyes shining in defense. It was as if he was ready to go off at anyone at any given moment, knuckles tightening to white around the hilt of his mace as he speaks, eyes glazing over. It was as if he became older, more weathered, shoulders slumping and breathing feeling forced, the longer he talked about Schlatt. The moment his words dropped off, he’d quietly return to himself again, and then he had to go. Somewhere dangerous and unpleasant. <em>Without me. </em>We’d already traded our corduroys and teddies in for rifles and gun powder years ago. I suppose trading those in for weathered blankets, dark caves, flickering lanterns, and pressed suit jackets, words heavy in corrupted policy, and the knowledge to stay silent no matter what, that was universally acknowledged, yet never expressed, was… <em> fine </em>. He’d changed, and I don’t think I wanted to see my best friend change, even if it wasn’t something good, without me to be there for it. I guess Wilbur and I were both making sacrifices and missing moments in the lives of our loved ones that very well may be defining them, for both good and worse.</p><p>My brothers are still arguing about potatoes, grinning and trading insults back and forth, threats made in a haze of now-unfamiliar humor. Humor that, for whatever reason falls flat, and I catch myself, staring longingly up into the ceiling, up towards home and spending quiet afternoons by the river, and running in the fields right before the seasons switch to autumn with Tubbo. Cattails exploding around us, birds singing, and wind whistling as the sun sets on the horizon. I just wanted to go home. I just wanted to see my best friend again, changed or not, he matters the world to me, and I would give up my world for him, without question.</p><p>For now, however, I sit at a makeshift chair, at a makeshift table, inside a makeshift kitchen, inside a home that I could refer to as such, but would always feel… alarmingly empty, with a family that had warped with age, and now, all of us who remained, were merely ticking time bombs. Blood being redstone, and mind consumed by explosives, and destruction something we all knew well, like our childhood nursery rhymes and tales we'd heard from our mother and father in the evenings. But for now, there is no destruction in russet potatoes and the twins' constant petty squabbles. But I knew, somehow, that there was no way that this would ever last. The reckoning was coming, and our blood holds the sword that brings it, although he had not yet allowed the metal to finished forging, but the moment it had, the sense of peace we'd been clinging to, would be obliterated, and there would be no hiding from it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you guys for reading! i have been reading the wiki a lot lately because my big boy ranboo brain literally does not remember anything in complexity at all, and seeing it all written out makes a bit more sense chronologically to me, so this of course resulted in a thirteen page google doc for plot, timeline and notes that i wrote at like 2am whilst ignoring my great gatsby essay, so that is very cool. also yes i know this story has silverfish hate in literally ever chapter i just hold grudges and let my brain go on rants whenever it wants lmao</p><p>as always, I hope your existence in this moment is oh so very good!<br/>much love,<br/>el &lt;3</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Farewell Wanderlust</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I walk alone. The faded, stained light of the lanterns long gone, my fingers dragging against the cement of the tunnels, breathing echoing and distorting in ways that almost made me laugh, it felt somewhat unnatural to be able to hear just my breathing and subtle thump of my heart, because usually, our brains and bodies cancel that out for us, thinking that, for whatever reason, if we heard that all time, we’d go mad, or something. I think that personally, being able to hear my own heart beat would be relaxing, the steady reminder that I was in fact, a person, and not just a vapid ghost of existence that was gradually sliding away along with the steady continuity of time, kind of like the passage I was traveling through.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the song for this chapter is 'farewell wanderlust', by the amazing devil.<br/>it is a truly stunning song, i listen to this album while i'm skiing, and it always makes me ski more angrily, haha!!</p><p>hello lovelies, just so all of y'all know, this chapter is a whopping 28 google docs pages. so, please take breaks if needed, and there are some light mentions of self destruction, y*lling, depictions of light v*olence, mentions of bl*od, a whole mental breakdown, however poetically spoken of, remains one none-the-less.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>ACT I: The Deceit of Achilles</p><p>-WILBUR-</p><hr/><p>I walk alone. The faded, stained light of the lanterns long gone, my fingers dragging against the cement of the tunnels, breathing echoing and distorting in ways that almost made me laugh, it felt somewhat unnatural to be able to hear just my breathing and subtle thump of my heart, because usually, our brains and bodies cancel that out for us, thinking that, for whatever reason, if we heard that all time, we’d go mad, or something. I think that personally, being able to hear my own heart beat would be relaxing, the steady reminder that I was in fact, a person, and not just a vapid ghost of existence that was gradually sliding away along with the steady continuity of time, kind of like the passage I was traveling through. </p><p>The passage that connected Pogtopia and Manberg. The thing that I specifically told Tommy not to build. That request was, apparently, ignored, because of course it was. Why would it not be? That's what happens whenever I asked my baby brother to do anything. As irritated as I was at him, I couldn’t bring myself to care. Not really. In a way, walking somewhere that wasn’t the rickety stone bridges, lined in oil lanterns and near-dying torches, was a relief. I guess when Manberg’s gone, the passage won’t be a worry. Anyone can come and go as they please, if they remain alive afterwards, that is. But there’s so much to consider about that option. As comfortable as it seems to me, and as realistic and possible, it still, deep down, feels wrong. I’m remembering things about Manberg that would have worked to preserve it, if it was still the L’manberg I knew and loved. But it isn’t, so what’s the point? I don’t know how many times I will have to reiterate that to myself before my heart can let go, and maybe… maybe it never will. That would be something to see, I think.</p><p>I round a corner, quieting my breathing at the subtle sound of footsteps from in front of me, jumping off the main path and hiding inside a crevice inside the wall, trying my best to stay away from the light. <em> Shit, shit, shit! If this was Quackity… we were fucked. I was fucked. Not caring about Tommy’s passageway was a mistake, god I’ve fucked up again, this is- </em>It’s Tubbo. Looking all lost, and chilled to the bone, if I can put it plainly. He’s being swallowed up in a worn, red sweater,-that is far too big for him, might I add-, the collar of a white button up poking out from underneath, black slacks contrasting the worn, carefree vibe of the sweater. An axe gleams in his hand, and even though the kid was one of the kindest souls I’d met, I was full aware he could rearrange someone’s entire skeletal structure with it if he so chose. </p><p>“Beautiful night out there, isn’t it, Tubbo?” I say, pulling myself back up onto the path, and smirking as he flinches back slightly at my words given without much warning, grip loosening from round his axe after he realizes it’s just me.</p><p>“I suppose it is, yeah. Wilbur, I’m not late, you didn’t have to walk this far out. You’re basically underneath the podium, if I’m correct. You get in trouble if somebody caught you this close in.” Tubbo’s always correct when it comes to Manberg geography. He built practically everything there, if he said I was under Schlatt’s stupid fucking remodeled podium, I was. Truth be told, the possibility of getting in trouble by walking through a tunnel system, amused me. What were they going to do, exile me? Take my son from me? My brother? They’d already succeeded in all of that. Have fun disciplining a man who has absolutely nothing left to loose but the clothes of my back, and my homeless person ravine cottage. I throw the fraying end of the scarf over my shoulder, narrowing my eyes towards him.</p><p>“Oh, what are they going to do about it if they do catch me, Tubbo? I’m already exiled anyway. It doesn’t matter. Not really. Now, walk with me and tell me what’s been going on. I could use news. Looking at nothing but stone and Tommy’s sily red shirt is grating my nerves too a thin point.” I say, ignoring Tubbo diverting his eyes from mine, fiddling with something on his belt as he spins his mace absently in his hand. His eyes are distant, as if forming a sentence after a long day, and I sigh, setting my jaw, and looking up into the ceiling, fleeting images of my son and me watching the fireworks from the podium on L’Manberg’s first Independence day, the evening calm and gentle, the entire memory seemingly glowing along with the lanterns perched in the trees, spattered in color due to the early spring bloom. </p><p>“To be fair, he is making a fashion statement. Reds a good color for him, it’s quite an achievement, honestly. Other than that, it’s no big deal, I’m sure nothing’s probably going to happen because of it, but Quackity? Yeah, um, he knows the tunnels connect to Pogtopia. He might be going looking for the entrance tonight, he told me so after the cabinet convened.” And just like that, the stone of dread returns to the pit of my stomach, weighing me down, making my heart beat a million miles a minute. We were fucked. We were so completely and totally fucked. If Quackity found Potgtopia, we’d be put on trial for violating our agreement to stay one away, and probably have any other desirable charges Schlatt could spell, thrown at us. We’d be finished. Everything I’d planned would disintegrate, and my only chance at seeing my legacy fulfilled would rot in a cell with me, our own damn country, the group project of the fucking century would crumble to dust in our imaginations, and we’d be doomed to nothing but our memories, and memory is a foolhardy thing to cling too, it’ll make you smile as it slits your throat.</p><p>“I truly hate that child sometimes. Tubbo, how fast can you make cement?” I ask, biting venomously at the corner of my lip, and wincing when it tinges, and begins to bleed. He scratches his head and looking up at me, eyes wide, and to my relief, genuine terror lies at their base. A traitor wouldn’t be afraid if their plan had worked. I smile, and crack my neck before I break into a run, not slowing even when my lungs begin to scream at me to take a breath, a steady grin pulling at my lips, and in this instant, I just can’t bring myself to care about the seriousness of it all, and for now, relish in the feeling of winded exhaustion screaming for attention, and getting completely and utterly ignored. Tubbo and the cement is long forgotten, and for a single second, I feel free again, until the illicit passage comes into view, and the reality of how fucked we truly are hits me like a truck going 95 in a 20. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The fucking wall had finally gotten patched, Tubbo working like a maniac on crack to get it fixed, and doing a near-perfect job, to give him credit, leaving purposeful imperfections- which was something I didn’t really fully understand the concept of-, to make the old passage entrance just disappear off the face of the earth. Anger toiled in my chest, unlocking a knot of rage that threatened to unravel before me, my nails digging into the side of my hand, eyes narrowed and jaw set. This wasn’t the first Tommy had made me upset in the past week. We were living in close quarters, in a cave together, for an undisclosed period of time, that did truly feel like it would go on forever, I was used to him being obnoxious, he’s my brother, after all, that’s just how it works, but now it just felt like insult to the injury of catching him reading my notebook not even eighteen hours ago, and now I catch this previous transgression? It was like he was egging me on, taking pride in pissing me off, and it was obnoxious that his strategy was working. </p><p>I crack my neck again, sighing irritably, leaning against the wall and pulling up my collar, frowning when Tubbo stands up a bit straighter, looking from me to whatever is around the corner. Fury settles at the bottom of my throat, running my tongue along the edge of teeth, eyes narrowed and set to stare across the wall at the stone in front of me. I wanted to fucking punch the wall. I wanted to hear the way the bones in my hand shatter, and the way the pain courses through my body, and maybe everything would quiet down if there was something else to think about that wasn’t just… <em> it.  </em></p><p>“Hi, Tommy.” Of course it was him, his timing was a bitch. Maybe not much of a bitch as karma, but it was very, very close. Tubbo’s tone almost makes me laugh, it’s as if he’s trying to warn him, but Tommy’s too dense for that. I’d be fine. </p><p>“Hi, Tubbo. It’s good to, uh, it’s so good to see you, buddy. But, uh, what’s going on here? Why is the passage all closed up?” He speaks as if he honestly believed that I wouldn’t find out. Does he forget I’m not stupid? I may have lost my seat of power, but to be fair, that was not done on <em> purpose </em>. But… that isn't an excuse to ignore me and go around my orders.</p><p>“Why indeed. Why indeed, Tommy. Why is your passage closed up? Let’s ponder this one. Let’s group project it, shall we?  We're good at that shit, y'know. Why the fuck did you think that was a good idea, Tommy? Why would you risk the safety of yourself and everyone we love who still allies themselves with us, for some fucking reason, including this fine lad right damn next to me, for some petty, stupid reason? What is wrong with you? Were you even fucking thinking, Tommy?” I roar, spitting out my words and narrowing my eyes at the kid, stepping forward towards him when he flinches away. I wasn’t going to ignore what he’d done simply because he was being weak, he was a big kid, I don’t need to baby him. Not any fucking more.</p><p>“Wilbur, look, please, I’m sorry. It just… it seemed like a good idea at the time, I promise you it wasn’t my intention to risk their safety, that thought didn’t… it didn’t even cross my mind at the time, okay? I’m so sorry.” There it is. Again with my brother and his ridiculous attempt at making an apology. He never understands the severity of his actions, because he’s just a child. A foolish child who does not take fucking accountability, or listen to who calls the damn shots. He’s a loose canon, and I used to appreciate that, but now… now it’s just fucking irritating and more dangerous than he knows. </p><p>“Tommy, that apology would go over so well if you were eight years old and had kicked a fucking bee house or something, but you aren’t! You’re sixteen! Old enough to know at least somewhat better than whatever shit this was, hell, I even told you not to do this. Explicitly. And you still did. Without my permission. And now there’s a fucking passage leading from Pogtopia, the only place we can live alone from Manberg and that whole clusterfuck, in relative safety, to the main fucking Manberg Tunnels, endangering not just our own futures, but the futures of everyone who visits and helps us in secret, including your friend. Do you know what would happen to him if Schlatt or Quackity caught him here with us? Do you know how much trouble he’d be in for that? They would execute him for treason. Because of a mistake <em> you </em>made.” I point my finger into Tommy’s chest, shouting so loud my voice was probably echoing around a whole square mile, Tubbo looks away and towards the ground, flinching occasionally when my voice pitches up in fury, spit and hands flying, and angrily pulling at my beanie as I speak, eyes wide and nerve wracked. </p><p>“I… Wilbur, I honestly didn’t think about it that way-” He sounds quiet, ashamed, and for a moment I think about relenting. <em> It was a mistake. It was just a childish mistake. You’ve made plenty and Dad never treated you like this. You could stop yelling at him now. He might hate you less. </em>But I just… don’t. Something else reminds me, I don’t have to do anything to appease anyone but my own head, and right now Tommy had to pay for his stupidity, so it didn’t happen again. </p><p>“Correct! Correct! You nailed it right on the head, good job, Tommy! Go run and get a fucking gold star from Dad, or some shit if you’re going to continue to act like a stupid child who doesn’t think about the damn ramifications of your fucking actions!” I scream at him, biting the skin away on my lip, until they feel raw, my mouth tasting copperish, the taste making me want to laugh so bad it hurts to repress it, my eyes refocusing on the expression of alarm and terror on my brother’s face, an expression that rapidly twists into one of fury. An expression that we seemed to share, as I knew I’d seen one identical to his reflected up at me from the glass covering my son’s photograph, and before I know it, I am being shouted at. </p><p>“What more do you want besides an apology, Will? You hold my actions to such a high regard, but yet from a power standpoint, you think I am worth nothing. You prefer to see me as just your powerless, stupid little baby brother, who just toddles after you, and somehow managed to become your errand runner, vice president, and I’m so sick of it. I’m so sick of you sometimes, Wilbur! I’m sixteen, for christ sake, which is still just a fucking teenager, in case you fucking forgot, you stupid, selfish fucking prick.” He shoves me backwards, eyes aflame, words ringed with an edge sharper than Tubbo’s mace, spit flying and shoulders heaving as his breathing seems, somehow, incredibly forced and panicked, yet something he’s trying to keep calm, even though there is not an ounce beyond his eyes, there is just rage. Rage that I hold in my heart, and cling to with my hands. Rage that has kept my twin brother alive, but with Tommy, he was always like Mum, she never got really, really angry unless someone shoved her over the edge, and I guess I’d shoved my little brother over the edge, and reached in and pulled out his rage, and set it free upon myself. <em> Good going, Wilbur. You’ve broken him. You broke your brother, nice going. You can’t do anything right, first you fuck up your kid, now you fuck up the kid brother. Excellent going.  </em></p><p>“Excuse me?” My voice threatens to topple, heart threatening to choke me with her notes as she tries and make herself heard, so I know I’m alive, and so I remember my actions will serve me a silver platter of consequences. I wasn’t immortal. I hold myself to the highest, and yet insufferably lowest contempt, and that is my problem to recover from, but was I subjecting my brother to that? Was I ruining him? Why was I hurting him for no reason? But, I’m protecting him. I have to keep him safe. He did something that goes against that, he did something that could get him nothing but hurt. But did he deserve that from <em> me </em>? His older brother? But then again, I needed to keep him, Tubbo and Fundy safe. I needed to keep my boys alive, no matter what, and he wasn’t getting that. He wasn’t getting that. He wasn’t getting that I’m just trying to protect them, that’s what it’s all been about from the start. It’s them. It’s not me. I’m temporary, I’m a notebook that’s running out of pages of story to be told, they have years ahead of them, year and years of good things, while my story is trickling to a steady close. </p><p>“You heard me, Will.” He lifts his chin, as if looking down upon me, something I know for a fact that he’d picked up from me, which felt like some kind of stupid, ironically irritating fan behavior bullshit, but fan behavior stung in guilt, and a heart-heavy weight of nothing pure shame, and before I know it, the dynamite my rage rests upon, explodes, and all control… is fucking decimated. </p><p>“Do you not understand I’m doing this to keep you and Fundy safe? Do you not understand that I’m trying to fucking protect you both! You don’t want to be the president, Tommy, trust me! I’m trying to keep you away from all that… I’m trying to protect my baby brother and my kid, okay!” I’m screaming at him, wrapping my arms around my torso, and ignoring when I feel my throat being yelled raw, my brother’s eyes widening in shock and concern for whatever he must see in my eyes. I’m sure they look crazy, god knows I do. I look like a weathered, rusty musket shot rifle, heavy with rust, disuse, and for some reason, I had pointed my gaze on a person the thing it served had harmed. But I’m desperate. I’m desperate for them to hear me, to hear what I’m trying to say, so they know the next step isn’t something selfish, it’s something necessary, and I am simply shouldering the burden for them to live into their own chapters, right? They will realize that one day, right?</p><p>“Your son wants nothing to do with you, Wilbur. And I’m beginning to feel the same. I saw your fucking notebook, I read what you were trying to do… and that… <em> that </em> isn’t protection. That’s murder. You want to murder our friends to be president again, you’re selfish. You lecture me about not thinking about consequences, what do you think the consequences would be if you did that, huh?” I snarl, lunging for him, all thoughts about understanding and growth gone, as I growl and pick him up by the collar of his shirt, dragging him against the back of the wall and watching as the fear returns to his eyes as he looks up at me.</p><p>“You don’t know anything about what’s in that fucking notebook, not a fucking thing. And, even if you did, it’s none of your fucking business, so keep your fucking nose out of it. I let you yell and scream at me as much as you want, hell, fucking hit me if it’ll make you feel better, I don’t care, but don’t bring my son into it like that. He’s one of the last few good things I have, Tommy. Whether he loves me, or wants me with him anymore… I don’t care. I just can’t have the idea in my head of him hating me too. Not now, okay?” I say, as realization of what I was doing hits me like a truck, and I let go of his shirt, hands tremoring and legs shaky, barely supporting me as I back into the stone wall opposite the one my brother is currently glued to in pure and absolute shock, eyes focusing on me, and gradually losing their fury, until he sighs and fixes the wrinkles on his shirt. Cracking his neck, and tightening the bandana tied around his neck, stepping towards me as if ready to go at it again, before Tubbo steps in, throwing his arm out in front of Tommy and him with a look that, in every language, translates to shut the fuck up before I make your life a physical living hell, which looked very pleasant to be on the receiving end of. </p><p>“Alright, I’ve had fucking enough. This isn’t getting us anywhere, you two are just infighting and it’s doing nothing. Tommy, you were being fucking stupid when you built this, that’s just a fact, okay? And you defended yourself when Wilbur got mad, and went after his son, that was fucked of you to do. And Wilbur? You had every right to be angry with him, don’t get me mistaken, getting physical like that is just very not cool. Both of you fucked up. Realize that and get over it, I’m not going to sit here and listen to you two argue like fucking toddlers, I can’t be late for the decree or I’ll get fucking interrogated by Quackity again, can we resolve this, now? Please?” I watch Tubbo go from merely remaining quietly in the background, to becoming decorated in a presidential authority, an authority that did not offer a single second of debate on the fact that Tubbo was no taking control of the situation. </p><p>“Tubbo’s right.  We’re being fucking childish and aggressive for no damn reason. I’m sorry for scaring you, Toms. I don’t know where that came from, but I shouldn’t subject you to it.” It takes everything in me to keep myself from, for some fucked up reason, fully breaking down in where the illegal Pogtopia tunnel once was in front of both my baby brother, and his best friend, but I dig my nails into my hand, and whittle at the skin on my lip until it bleeds yet again from the barely-closed scab.</p><p>“It’s alright, Will. We’re both stressed, it’s been a long month. But, uh, if I can… what did you mean when you wrote destruction into that notebook? Are you planning something?” I flinch, an unnatural voice piercing my ears from my memory, flashes of anger and the sound of a broken quill making me shiver and tremor, eyes widening, and blood from my now-split lip mixing with bile. </p><p>“You’ll find out soon, Tommy.” I say, eyes looking ahead. A small, guilty chuckle escaping my bloodied lips. “You’ll find out soon, I promise. I promise, but, um, can you, uh, can you do me a favor as my brother?” He picks up his head, and in his eyes there is the kindness of our mother, and the honor of his soul. He was truly something good, even if he never got credit for it. I know I make the world sting for him sometimes… but for whatever reason, a reason probably weighed in a trust I cannot understand, he is still willing to help me. He would grow to become a great man in my absence, I just know he will. </p><p>“As your brother? Of course. What is it?” I bite at my lip, watching the loyalty recrystallize behind eyes that belonged to the deepest, clearest depths of the ocean. I catch Tubbo smiling to the left of me, relieved we’ve stopped fighting for the moment, probably, which was, I must admit, a very mutual sentiment. </p><p>“Can you stay away from Manberg tonight?” My question chips visibly away at his loyalty, and I can see him struggle with the need for retaliation, and I watch as he begins to bite at his lip, drawing blood. The action alarms me, and the familiarity of it shocking me. It was easy to forget we were related sometimes, he was more lighter toned then I was, and his voice was higher, but that is where the differences stop. Which was tragic, in my eyes. This kid can’t become me. Everything good would get ruined, and it looked like it was already happening in front of me. I had to go sooner. I had to hasten the plan. For Tommy. For Fundy. For Tubbo. The longer Tommy spends here with me, the less time it’ll take for him to repeat my own slew of mistakes over and over. </p><p>“Schlatt’s making his decree tonight, Wilbur. I can’t… I can’t miss that.” Indeed, he was right. It was unfair to ask him to miss this. To miss a chance to sneak home even just to watch Schlatt, of all people, talk, but he cannot be there. I cannot have him there. I have to recon with Dream later, and having him anywhere near there, would make everything backfire. I do not want to answer to him. My choices are my own, and this choice is unwaveringly becoming a solid plan, and I will not cease on this road because of my brother. The inevitable is the inevitable, and keeping it away from him for as long as possible, I think that would be best for now. That boy has seen too much blood, the promise of more is not one he should hear. </p><p>“I know. I know. But, please. Please just stay away from it. Just… stay in Pogtopia, okay? I’ll come get you when I get back, I promise.” The promise is empty, and I know he hears the emptiness through my smile, but I think he somehow hears my desperation tethered to my words, and he holds his tongue, eyes surveying me, narrowing, as if trying to pick up something unseen. </p><p>“You’re hiding something from me, aren’t you, Will?” He whispers, his voice echoing like the light from his lantern, growing louder before quieter, and taking seconds to manifest into silence. He wants me to talk, and spill everything I’d been thinking about, but would he even listen? Or would he just offer alternatives that I already know…<em> just won’t work </em>. So I remain silent, diverting my eyes from his iridescent blue, to the sultry darkness of a tunnel in front of me, listening as Tommy sighs. </p><p>“Okay. Don’t tell me, then. I suppose I’ll listen to the thing you’ve said to me, and try and avoid Manberg for tonight, Wilbur. No guarantees at me staying away completely, but I’ll do my best. Okay?” He says, rolling up on his toes, and fixing me with a look as if he’s trying to see inside my mind, shaking off his gaze, and turning my head to the floor again, sniffing and wiping away the blood ringlets clinging to my lip with my sleeve. It smells like smoke, and I flinch away from it. Everything around me smells like smoke. I’m getting to be slightly sick of it. It’s poetic irony, I guess, in a way.  Setting something that I never thought would lie in my hindsight aflame does that to someone. Who knew.</p><p>“Okay, that’s a compromise. I like that. Thank you.” I say, voice hollow and clipped. Eyes fixated at the ground, as if I could blink and I could be asleep at home as kids; Tommy bundled up in a blanket, and snoring next to me after a bad dream, and Techno talking in his sleep while buried in a mound of blankets, them both keeping me awake. I’d give anything for that back, really. Possibly the very heart in my chest just to be with my brothers again, but… life got in the way. And now we’re here.</p><p>“Mhm. Anyway, see you later, big man. Don’t let yourself get caught, that would be embarrassing.” And he’s back, with a ridiculously wide smile on his face, and a silly little nickname, I take the cue that, I have been forgiven for this moment’s altercation, and I have to be thankful for his forgiveness, because that is not something that I know he would immediately, and willingly, give to anyone else. </p><p>“Wouldn’t dream of it, little dude. Stay safe getting home.” I flash him a near-identical grin and just watch as his smile grows in intensity, joy filtering through my brain, and allowing me to take a deep breath and bask in the nostalgia of our banter. I go to turn, beginning to walk with Tubbo down the path, who waves at Tommy, and grins at him, winking discreetly, and grinning when Tommy giggles and smiles back at him.</p><p>“Oh, I will. And, uh, Will?” He says, scratching his cheek with his knuckle. His hair looks like he went through a fist fight, probably because he very well may have, but it’s still a treat to see him smile and be in somewhat good spirits again. For a while there, I seriously thought I’d have to kidnap Tubbo if his mood didn’t approve soon, because damn. I don’t think I saw him for days after the exile, he just kind of stayed quiet, and drew in his sketchbook in a quiet little corner, and I let him at it for as long as Techno thought it was healthy. But… it’s good to see him smiling again.</p><p>“Yeah, Toms?”</p><p>“Whatever Schlatt announces tonight, okay? It isn’t the end of the world. It doesn’t matter all that much, really. Try not to let an alcoholic goat get to you psychologically, that’s just embarrassing on both our ends.” Oh from the mouths of babes, I suppose. Fundy had said to me when he was maybe nine or ten, something along the lines of the fact that not a lot of adults listen to the young ones, and it gives them more time to observe and really go in and nitpick the situation from an outside point of view, and I guess he was doing something like that. Even though Tommy definitely wasn’t a child, not really. Not that I would ever tell him that and give him a whole complex, but he very blatantly was just not that anymore. </p><p>“I’ll try, little dude. I’ll try.” He grins, and winks, before he dashes off town the passage, faint humming of a song I’d once composed for him as a toddler audible as it echoes off the walls with the sounds of his footsteps, and fading melody of his breathing. Whatever happens tonight, I’ll figure it out. Take it in stride, you know?</p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>I, <em>apparently</em>, am not good at taking it in stride.</p><p>Turns out, sneaking around and climbing to the top of tower all while not being spotted by anybody, was harder than I thought. Tubbo and I had split up right before the Tunnel let out underneath the White House, and since there was apparently no way into the tower, from said Tunnel, I had to come up underneath Tommy’s old house, and sneak around from there, which proved to be too fucking difficult. I literally almost got spotted four times, and fell down the mountain, but, somehow, I managed to pull myself up the ladder of the tower, sighing as I pull myself up and through to the first level, the wind whistling around me, as the last of the crickets chirp menacingly, the night was edged in a distant chill, enhanced by the wind. Autumn was coming quickly, even though time seemed prolonged, and although it is nearing the end of September, Summer was still holding tight, as if determined to delay the cold for as long as she could, and for that, I was thankful. After all, everything reaches it’s boiling point in the Ides of Winter. </p><p>Back when me, Techno and Tommy were kids, it got cold halfway through August, and snow would be on the ground between the second and third week in September, on average, and the weather would only worsen in extremity from there out, making it a bitch to do our outside chores, and even take the little ones and the animals for walks, as between the snow, near-freezing temperatures, and raging fury from the sea, it was almost a danger to just go walking in the front yard. But here, winter was calmer, not as abrasive and violent, and summer would sing away into fall, and leave maybe a month of real winter before spring rolled around again. </p><p>If you couldn’t already tell, I am getting significantly tired of waiting for the event to start, and am talking about nostalgic shit to pass the time, because even just being here, watching how much they’ve changed the fucking podium… the podium that I used too… no, no. Not now. We’re here to hear what fucked shit Schlatt’s going to go on and piss me off about. I can worry about it later, I can get mad later. Not now. Not right now.</p><p>Niki’s here. Right by the front, in a pink ballgown that I know I’ve seen before, and I’m certain she wore it for my inauguration. I’m sure it’s the dress she danced with me for the majority of the night in, and the dress that she spilled banana pudding on and I almost had a heart attack laughing about it. A crown sits atop set, crystalized, blonde curls, and even from this distance, she is stunning. Which I shouldn’t have doubted, but she is still under the <em> ‘supervision’ </em>by George and Sapnap, who pass her little looks throughout the general pre-decree chaos. It may have been one of my favorite things to see her, but you know what isn’t? Seeing Niki right next to Eret, and in reality the whole thing boiled my blood and called me ugly in three languages, but I bite my lip, and divert my attention to everybody else in the crowd, trying to gauge their emotions from this far back is genuinely sort of impossible, but at least their body language is giving somewhat of a clue.</p><p> I roll my eyes and yawn, leaning back against the stone castle turret, and turning my eyes skyward, ignoring the feeling of the cold, sharp stone currently pressing into the nape of my neck and making my spine feel all wonky, probably because doing this is slowly bringing back the sleeping-in-a-cave neck cricks, but on another note, the stars from this angle, are stunning. Wisps of light blues, flushed purples and shining silvers dapple along the channel that is the milky way, the sight enough knock the breath right out of me, and while I remain enraptured with the stars, I don’t hear Tommy ascending the ladder and quietly pulling himself up and through, but I do hear his footsteps. </p><p>He was trying to keep his breathing as level as possible, but that also was not working due to the probable exhaustion of ascending the ladder mere minutes before.  I grit my teeth, fighting to keep my mood steady while I pretend not to notice when he’s sneaking around and ducking behind the turret wall, some six or seven nocks in the stone away from me. At least he had enough sense to be sneaky about it, I suppose. As furious as I very well could be, I realize, it’s just not worth it. I knew he was going to come when I told him to stay home, and honestly? I’d rather have a freethinking child in my care, then someone who just followed whatever I said without question. Keeps me on my toes.</p><p>“Were you safe coming up here, buddy? Nobody saw you, I hope.” I whisper to him, eyes drifting from him to back up at the heavens, taking a little happiness in how relieved Tommy was that I didn’t seem angry at him again, he even crawls closer to me from behind the turrets, now only feet away. A tired grin distorted across his face by a heavy yawn, as he hits my shoulder lightly with the top of his head.</p><p>“Yeah, I was safe on the way over here, Will. And I’m sure nobody saw me, I came up from around the back.” He whispers to me, sounding more tired than he’d probably let on if I asked, eyes flickering up over the turret peak and town to the podium below. The feeling of impatience was apparently mutual between us both. Schlatt’s sily decree thingy was supposed to start not even fifteen minutes ago, and so far, the only actually interesting things going on down there was Tubbo and Quackity whispering something to each other hurriedly, their eyes each filled with alarm and worry about something there was no way in hell I’d be able to make out over the combined sound of Tommy and me’s breathing, and just abrasive wind that roars through here at the end of summer-nights.</p><p>“What do you think the hold up is about, Toms?” I whisper, daring to look a bit further over the castle turret, noticing, even from far away anxious his cabinet seems, from George, standing solemnly, and quietly off to the side of the stage, and Quackity wringing his hands on the bench next to Tubbo, who is nervously trying to fix his tie and suit jacket, brushing what I suppose is Tunnel dirt off the lapel. </p><p>“Schlatt’s drunk. He’ll be here soon. Be patient, Will.” He whispers back at me, peering over the turret and narrowing his eyes at Tubbo. </p><p>I open my mouth, ready to say something along the lines of wanting nothing to do with waiting for Schlatt and his talent of not adhering to a president’s way of conducting oneself, when the rush and scramble of his cabinet signals Schlatt’s arrival. I run my tongue over my teeth, cracking my neck and letting my hands ball into fists. This man made me more angry than I cared to admit, and the way he just seemed to brush off the job as president was just another insult to injury. He was a prick. An asshole in it for nothing but the power and the money, and I hated him for it.</p><p>Watching him somewhat drunkenly stumble up the podium, Quackity literally basically carrying him to the microphone, was very rewarding for me therapeutically, I must admit. He looks like a whole mess, the only thing not absolutely scuffed, his stupid red tie, which for some reason was making me infuriated at how just perfect he’d managed to tie it even while fucking intoxicated. He taps the mic, the sound shrieking around the podium seating, the sound making me want to flinch away. Not just from the sound, either, from this whole thing. I used to love it here. I used to bring the boys up to the top of the tower and show them the world and the stars, but now… now it’s just devoid of anything that I can remember loving, and filled to the brim with broken promises and ruined dreams, for L’Manberg, my beautiful L’Manberg, she was once my dream, and it was tragic that now that dream had been muddled.</p><p>“Welcome, everybody!” His voice snaps me out of it, my jaw setting in a kind of unsettled rage, a rage I shove down, knowing I can resolve it later, and peer over the turret, watching as Schlatt stumbles to reach for the mic, the insult of having him, of all people, in the place of a true leader, up at that podium, is a big one, it’s an insult to the very ground he walked on, because he does not stand for this country, but yet, if he didn’t… why would he be in that place, and me here? The world as I’d once seen it is long-decayed, and I seem to be the only one who watches the flames ascend over our home at the hands of the goat-man, fueled by the bottle of whiskey he was seemingly tethered to. </p><p>“I got up on the right side of the bed, you know? I rolled out of bed, and I was like, you know what, today I’m gonna do something that people will remember, and that people will appreciate.” His voice booms, and I make a mental note that he is very fucking loud, and really not someone to be fucking with while upset, because good god his voice is loud, and obnoxious enough to make me want to gouge my hearing out with a wooden spoon, but nevertheless, I do my best to focus on what he’s saying, even though I very much want to go home.</p><p>“So! Our festival, right, that’s what I’m here to announce, it’s going to be a celebration of democracy!” Excuse me? Did this ram looking mother fucker just say democracy? He wouldn’t know the concept of democracy if it smacked him in the face, and what the fuck did he mean by a goddamn festival, was this someone’s sick idea of a fucking joke? It better be a joke.</p><p>“The very democracy that put me in power, that evicted the… the, you can’t really say this lightly, the dictator, that was here before me, the democracy that let Manberg live up to his full potential, so! I say, we call everybody here, from all corners of the world, save for two specific undesirables, of course, and we have a fucking celebration of the ages! And just look at that flag, boys! That is such a nice flag. Just kind of screams power, don’t you think?” Tommy looks over to me, watching as my eyes leave the podium, jaw locking as a sort of feral fury begins to puncture my heart in tiny, painful intervals, burning my skin and hurting my throat, his words echoing around me, as if I was stuck in the middle of his speech, wondering if he was right, re-watching everything I’d done as president. </p><p>Did I watch those fireworks all those years ago with my son as someone moral? Did I bring independence for democracy, or was it just… something else the whole time? Something I’d purposeful ignored? But I didn't… I didn’t ignore anything, I sharpened the pencil that committed the notes of the beginning of L’Manberg’s symphony. I did that, but did I do it for me? For my family? Or for my own stupid selfish reasons, and did that make what I was mulling over now even more worse than before? I don’t know. I don’t know. I never know. I’ll never know at this rate, I’ll die with this, and I don’t think I care. </p><p>Next to me, and unnoticed, Tommy has found a bow that must’ve been hiding around here or something I don’t know, but he stands regardless, tattling on our location for really anyone to see as he silently draws back his bow, arrow nocked, and eyes squinting as he aims, taking extreme caution to stay very still, clenching his jaw so hard just to focus, he’s stopped breathing. My rage softens for a moment, and I place a extremely hesitant hand on the curve of the bow, and pull both him and it to the ground, shaking my head at Tommy, who just kind of looks from me to Schlatt and sighs, kicking the bow away and reaching for me, head slumping on my shoulder, and before I can even get enough <em>oumph</em> in me to speak, he’s ambushed me in a hug, doing his best to shift his breathing into something gentle, and not something feeding off of my rage, which is coming from something… he just doesn’t understand, and I don’t think he ever has too, really. He shouldn’t have to act in accordance to my own rage. I got myself into this, I can get us out. </p><p> </p><p>We walk in silence, my eyes aimed ahead, wanting nothing more than to get Tommy home so I can recon with Dream. After that mess of a speech, I was trying to contain myself, I was trying to take deep breaths and manifest not losing my fucking shit in front of my baby brother again. Manifest the breathing techniques, Will, no panic episodes in front of baby brother, wait until you’re alone. Wait until I’m somewhere where I can start yelling and shouting about how pathetic everything had become, somewhere nice, that doesn’t fucking echo, somewhere where the landscape won’t reverberate and snitch on my thoughts that run loose around my mind after the ram called me a fucking dictator, and laughed. He laughed. He laughed, that blissfully ignorant idiot, he doesn’t realize he’s standing on a corpse, does he? He doesn’t know I’ve already signed her off as deceased, it was only a matter of time before I follow through with that promise, and drive nails through the lid of her coffin, putting an end to this whole mess. </p><p>“Wilbur, I could’ve taken my shot.” He says it quietly, but determination and a prickly defensive bleeds from his voice. I know he would have, and I would let him, but it wouldn’t do anything. It wouldn’t fix shit. Besides, an arrow will just shatter everything into even smaller pieces, doing nothing, for nobody, and I needed it intact. I needed everything intact before I, personally, was the one to light the fuse. Poetic irony goes both ways, you know.</p><p>“No. Killing Schlatt wouldn’t do anything. That would not fix a single issue, because then Quackity would just become President, and who knows if that would be worse, and then George would become vice president… and it would mean nothing.” I say, absently drumming my fingers against the trunk of a tree as I walk past, my teeth biting at my lip, hands pulling on my sleeves. Something was wrong. Something was bad. Was it me? Was my plan wrong? Was I really just the dictator this whole time? Was I their villain? Is that why they wanted me gone? I mean, it would make sense if it was that. It would be a fresh breath of air to actually be able to understand what was going on for once, and maybe… maybe my brain had pulled me into a river of deception, and I’d just been so ready to believe anything, that I ignored the signs. Maybe I was a villain. Maybe the separation of me and L’Manberg was not done to enable Schlatt’s own corruption, but to disable my own? Maybe… just maybe, that was the case. It would explain why my son tore down the walls, and why me and Tommy, my VP, got exiled. But, I couldn’t seriously believe that, right? Niki told me I was good, she believed in me, she believed in L’Manberg, and Niki wouldn’t lie. She wouldn’t. I had to have faith, but I can’t when everything I used to fucking hold close, even the destruction of our home, is now tainted and muddled. I stop, dead in my tracks, turning around to look at Tommy, who stumbles under my gaze, squinting at me, and looking from me to where I stare, severely, at the trunk of a tree, completely abandoning my oath I’d made to myself four hours earlier, as I feel my hands begin to tremble again, and the putrid taste of blood, metal, smoke and bile filling up the back of my throat. </p><p>I can taste the shrapnel. I can taste the sting of the trinitrotoluene, I can hear it, and I’m swimming in it’s aftermath, and before long, I can’t even stop it from happening, but I’ve fallen to the ground and I’m choking on it, coughing up blood and bile onto the ground below me, Tommy’s hand planted firmly on my back, the only thing that’s keeping me partially tethered here, if I’m being honest. He stands next to me, staying silent, except for the occasional, muttered, assurance that this was fine, which was very debatable, his eyes roaming the tree line, scanning for anything hostile; anything unnatural, fingertips ghosting at the hilt of his sword, ready to pounce if anything threatened us, like a blonde stray cat.</p><p>“Tommy, I have a question for you.  Because this festival, right? It is a good idea, it doesn’t seem like a bad idea, it just seems like a friendly thing Schlatt’s doing, I don’t understand why…Tommy, are we the bad guys? I mean, we just kind of made ourselves the leaders and then we had a vote, and he won, in a coalition government, which is completely legal, and now we’re trying to overthrow him, it just… it feels like we’re the bad guys. Am I the villain? Am I the villain in their history books?” My voice is quiet, a rasp coating the endings of each syllable that makes me cringe back in revulsion, my already shaky steps, watched intently by Tommy, growing more uncertain and unsteady by the moment, which was just… just great. </p><p>“No. No, we started L’Manberg, and we should have won that vote.” His voice does not lack conviction, in fact, it appears to me, as if he’s drowning in it, but even then, what he says feels off, like he’s missing the point of the question, my jaw setting into a heavily-focused scowl as I survey the tree line, a flash of motion being dismissed as the swish of a foxes tail, and not, in fact, the drawing of one’s sword. But, he’s right, and he’s also wrong, because losing that vote, got me to understand. It provoked me to see the flaws of Manberg that lay, right out in the open, just waiting to be observed. To be picked at, and discarded as I see fit. Manberg was doomed, I knew that, I should have known that for a while, but I didn’t because I was just enraptured by the life we had when it wasn’t, and… and now… now there was nothing left of it but a tree. </p><p>“But the people decided we shouldn’t’ve. On the day they decided they were going to make a coalition and our cockiness, our arrogance, got ahead of us, and we allowed it. We said yes, coalition governments are allowed, Tommy, I think we are the bad guys, but you know what, I want to say something to you, me and you, okay? We both agree we’re right. We’re in the right here, aren’t we?” My voice has noticeably pitched into desperation as my brain dedicates itself into trying to form comprehensible words, and I can see a flash of panic register in Tommy’s being, and he’s now on edge, his hand sinking onto the hilt of his sword, instinct kicking in. </p><p>Was I scaring him? Why was the truth scaring him? Or is that why… oh. That is why we lived in denial for years. Because the truth scared us. The truth of Fundy’s mother dying, scared me to my core, so I refused to talk about her. The sordid truth of my own mother leaving for an expedition when we were children, and never returning, and probably lying dead in a ditch, by now, terrified me, and so I didn’t speak of it. What happened to Techno when we were eight, and how he was missing for six months, scared our father to this day, so much so that we don’t bring that up anymore. Me going quiet when things get loud, scares me. And so we don’t talk about it. It was the same thing with Manberg. The only difference, is that Manberg is a place, a place that was rotting, and we still didn’t notice. We willingly ignored it, even though the thing was long dead. </p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, we are.” He sounds quiet, he sounds like he wants to change the subject so he doesn’t have to speak about the rot we’d helped in feeding, but we can’t. We can’t go without addressing this. We just can’t. It isn’t fair, to anybody, really. Manberg was a poison, a parasite, and we had to sever our pity for it from our minds completely, and if we had to play into their understanding, and assume the role of villain, then so be it. If that was the only way getting rid of it all, then so be it. So be it.</p><p>“Then let’s be the bad guys. Tommy, what… why are you looking at me like that? Look, it’s… our nation, right? But, it’s gone, it’s far behind us.” I cry, laughing as my eyes shine with something that probably appears to be insanity, my voice swelling with pure delight, and yet watered-down rage, my hands balling into fists at my sides, my breathing coming in ragged gasps. I turn to face my brother, who’s eyes are alit in horror, and he’s leaning away from me, body tense, and hand enclosed completely around the hilt of his sword. I ignore it. Let him try. Let him try to cut me from this world. Let him try. It would be amusing to watch the sanity fall from him after he was the one to sever me from this world, or at least… it may be for a moment before the guilt returns after the slaughter, like my twin always says it does. Breaking a bone always stings after the adrenaline wears off, right? But I had shit to do. I wasn’t finished, not yet, at least. I still had work to do. </p><p>“Tommy, let’s blow that motherfucker to smithereens. Let’s blow the whole thing up!” I say, shouting extremely loudly, and laughing hysterically, throwing my arms out in a wide, arching halo, ignoring when I feel hot tears pool in the corner of my eyes. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. It didn’t matter if I cried anymore, nobody looks twice when the dead cry out, for nobody can hear the dead, but the dead themselves.</p><p>“Wilbur, are you… are you even hearing yourself, right now?” I turn around to look at him, scowling when I see the shock flash across his face in waves. Even now, even after the very assholes who had turned my country into something polluted, they had just deflected the blame to me… and had called me a fucking dictator, on top of all of it, Tommy still just couldn’t understand, he was just so stuck in something that belonged in the past, that he couldn’t wrap his head around erasing it. A wave of fury consumes me, and suddenly all control I’d been forcing upon myself, crumbles, and my heart begins to beat out of chest, glorified by the tune of my own fury, and the ticking of a ghostly time bomb.</p><p>“Tommy, I say if we can’t have Manberg, yeah? No one… no one can have Manberg!” I shout, stopping dead in my tracks, and slamming my fist against the trunk of a tree, breathing heavily and turning my head to look backwards at my brother, my eyes intense and alit with rage and conviction, the knowledge of my burden being spilled to someone who wasn’t my mind, or Dream, lies in the back of my throat, weighing me down. I ignore the tremble in my hand, instead resorting to biting away at the skin on my lip and digging my nails into my palm as the smell of explosions, and the familiar taste of blood fills my senses.</p><p>“Wilbur, I think… I think we can take it back… There’s still-” Tommy whispers, trying to set his hand down on my shoulder, maybe in an attempt to calm me down, but it doesn’t work, it won’t work. I don’t need to be calmed down, I need to be understood, I need to know that all this destruction makes sense to someone who isn’t just me. </p><p>“No, no, no, no! I see this as the end of an era! We burn that place to the fucking ground, I want no crops to grow there ever again, I want the entire place… I want it all gone!” I push away from the tree, flinching away from my brother’s hand, and walking backwards through a clearing, waving my hands through the air as I speak, spit flying, and tears angrily tracking down my face, heavy in rage.</p><p>“Wilbur…” He urges, his voice sounding like it wants to break, just like it used too when he was a child and he’d be swamped in nightmares, and I’d have to comfort him, but now? Now there was a chance at ridding us of our current nightmare, and I was taking it. I wasn’t going to let anybody, never mind Tommy, take that from me.</p><p> “Tommy, let’s be the villains.” I blurt, completely ignoring him, and just plowing through, with my thoughts, my heart beating about a mile a minute, going far too fast for me to make sense of most of it, but taking a delight and yet getting slightly enraged when he just stares at me, eyes wide and looking, to me, almost horrified. </p><p>“Will… can I, um, can I have a minute to think about it, maybe? I’m just… Yeah.” His voice is teetering, and he doesn’t meet my gaze. His fingers tap against the back of his hand anxiously, and he looks like he wants to be somewhere far away, his eyes nervously look away from me and sit at the edge of the horizon, as if he wanted to run away away from me and stay as far away as physically possible from the whole situation, but we didn’t have time for this. We had no time for distance, or confliction, all we had time for was to solve our problem, and end it the way I’d planned. I couldn’t keep letting myself delay it. It had to happen, it had to fall, that was place was nothing but poison. L’Manberg was long dead, I knew that. Hell, her corpse was rotting in the middle of the square, and it was my job to get rid of it, it was my <em> responsibility </em> to get rid of it, and after tonight… tonight there’s nothing else to think about. It’s not an <em> ‘ooh, let’s think about this kind of thing’ </em> , it’s a <em> ‘this thing has already been seriously considered and the pros and cons have been weighed out, and it’s happening regardless’, </em> kind of thing. The entire fucking place is getting blown to kingdom come by the very lad who first wrote her independence into reality as soon as possible, and if that isn’t the most beautiful piece of poetic irony I’ve ever heard of, I don’t know what is.</p><p>“Think about what, Tommy? Think about what? You’ve had a minute, you’ve had days, you’ve had weeks… we lost that election more than two weeks ago, Tommy!” I yell,  eyes narrowed and angry, as I smack my hand against a tree, furiously whirling around to look at Tommy, who almost cowers away from me, eyes alert and dripping in fear and flinching whenever my voice pitches upwards in volume.</p><p>“I need a… you’re just not making sense. Please, just… just give me a minute.”  He says, sighing and trying to take a deep breath. He runs his hands through his hair and yanks on the ends, exhaling a shaky breath when he finally releases it, and picks his head up, he turns to look at me, as if he wanted to say something, before he bites his lip, and turns to look at the entrance of Pogtopia.</p><p>He ducks down and rolls through, pulling his sword in with him. I follow him moments later, anxiety and worry leeching into his figure, and I don’t wait for him to settle down from the apparent panic he’d worked himself into. Instead, I walk ahead, dragging my finger against the wall, grinning as he runs ahead to try and catch up with me, scratching at the side of his middle and ring fingers, as he nervously wrings his hands. </p><p>“Here’s the plan, okay, Tommy, okay? We talk to Dream, because he’s on our side, now. And we ask him, very nicely, for all the damn TNT he has, which I’m sure is quite a lot, and then we blow up the entire fucking place to kingdom come, I want no survivors. We can’t afford survivors, hell, heaven help whoever’s caught in the crossfire. It’s my favorite thing, when everyone’s saying that everyone’s against Schlatt, and they’re wrong! They’re wrong, they’ve always been wrong! They got us hanging by the scruff of our necks, just playing us for fools, while they just sit back and look pretty. Like Tubbo? Tubbo’s just oh yes I’ll be your spy, and then we’ve got Fundy saying he’s going to help, and Eret and his stupid fucking pity potatoes, and you know what? It’s bullshit. The whole thing is just bullshit!” I yell, as I pace back and forth, hands tremoring as I grip at the back of my beanie. My eyes look around, convinced something’s going to go wrong, convinced I’m going to loose it all, and I can’t… I have to let my rage in, because if I’m angry enough, I know for sure that nothing will want to hurt me, the logic is there, I just know it is. It’s not me going off the rails, don’t say that, it’s me thinking clearly! It’s everything being cleared up, and soon… soon everything's going to fall into place, the button will click, and everything will make sense again. The dust will clear, and the ash will settle, and I can finally take a deep breath, and let myself rest for even just a moment.</p><p>“Wilbur!” Tommy shouts, cutting my thoughts dead through the middle, like a molten knife. His voice reverberates off the cavern walls, quieting me instantly, and I look down, shame seeping into my heart, the moment my eyes met the molten betrayal of his. I force my brain deeper and deeper underwater, shoing my rage painfully aside. I don’t want to look at him. I know yelling was a mistake, I know screaming about what I was planning to do wasn’t good, but what other choice did I have? I couldn’t just die and let this die with me, I needed to make my death matter, and if this was the way that happened, then so be it.</p><p>“What, Tommy.” I murmur, voice emotionless, and halfhearted. It barely even sounds like its mine, really. </p><p>“It’s not too far gone, alright? There’s a reason I gave up my discs. There’s a reason why we’re here, we can build it back to it’s former glory, we don’t have to just… decide that it’s over! You’re being reckless, Wilbur. You’re being fucking reckless.” He sounds disappointed, and upset, and towards the end… definitely angry, but you know what? I’m mad, too. I’m mad he’s stuck in the past, I’m mad nobody’s seen the signs of a dead dream, and I’m mad I have to loose both my son, my baby brother, and my entire way of life for this. I’m mad, and I’ve been mad for days, and it’s about fucking time he joined me. It was about fucking time. </p><p>“What’s the point? You know how much blood was spilt to get where it is today, do you know what it would take to get it back? More blood, more fucking sweat, and once we had it, we would be the damn illegitimate rulers of a nation. The only reason that Dream is working with us is because we are the enemies of his enemies!” I insist, running my hands through my hair as my breath comes in in low, unsteady gasps, my hands returning to shaking, and pissing me off in the process. It wasn’t the time to show weakness, it just wasn’t. There was no room for it. Not anymore. I had to focus, and it had to be done. </p><p>“Wilbur, the reason why we went through the bloodshed and the pain that it took to get L’Manberg, was to get away. It was to have somewhere we could call home, because we need L’Manberg, and if there’s no L’Manberg, what’s the point?” He was making points, I had to admit that, quite eloquently, too. But then again, he was also dead right and dead wrong, in some aspects. He was correct in the fact about how much damn bloodshed and the pain we tolerated to get L’manberg where it was, but on the complete polar opposite, L’Manberg is gone. You may need something that’s dead, and ignore the fact that it’s gone because you don’t believe you could personally live without it, but that doesn’t mean you can get it back. If something’s gone, it’s gone, and Tommy just hadn’t grasped that yet, and that’s okay, but I didn’t have time to pry the memory of what L’Manberg was away from my brother, it was just going to have to crumble on it’s own time. </p><p>“I know why you’re doing this Tommy. I know, I see it in your eyes, I can hear it your voice… </p><p>Tommy Innit, you’re <em> scared </em> that people are going to think differently about you. Tommy when I said you were never going to be president, you have to understand, that wasn’t a challenge. That’s true, you’re <em> never </em>going to be president, Tommy.”  I laugh, looking down, grinning wildly, and I’m met with pale, frightened eyes, eyes that look up at me when I set my hand on his shoulder… eyes that glow with rage, and panic, and a steady distrust growing deep below that swirls along the blue like the winds of a storm.</p><p>“And I can hear it in your voice, you’re trying to sound like you know what you’re doing, so that you can prove me wrong! Tommy, none of us know what we’re doing, we’re fucked. We were fucked the minute we were thrown out. Schlatt knows, okay? He’s a smart man, he knows if we fight him, even if we beat him, right? We’ve lost. Tommy, there’s no inbetween, he knows we’ve lost. But you know what? In a time like this, when a man has nothing to lose, do you know what that means?” I whisper, my voice echoes against the cavern walls, making it sound louder, and far more confrontational than I think I sound, making Tommy flinch as I stalk towards him, my posture slumped, and breathing labored, maniacal laughs falling from the clutches of the rage and panic I’d long locked away, the taste of gunpowder and blood and ash constricting my throat, making it harder to breathe, but in all honesty, I can’t seem to bring myself to care. </p><p>“No. What does that mean?” Tommy’s voice is hollow, and emotionless, like a bleak winter day, and he does not meet my eyes, his gaze glitching off to the left of me, as if he’s trying to process something, something that lies just below his reach. </p><p>“It means we can do what we want. We have a man on our side who literally rigged our own nation with TNT, we can do the same to them. We can rig this festival with TNT, we can kill them all, Tommy. Tommy, literally, have you not noticed?” The grin corrodes away from my lips, as I break down laughing, sniffling, and wiping my nose with my sleeve. My hands tremor, and I yank off my beanie, pulling it off my head and dropping it to the ground, aggressively threading my hands through my hair, as my laughter corrodes into something insane and maniacal, lava-hot tears tracking down my face and falling to the ground. </p><p>“No, no…” Tommy insists, shaking his head, and backing away from me, horror streaking across his features as he bites away at the skin on his lip, tears welling in the corner of his eyes, distorting the blue, and turning them from the color of clear sky summers, to a the color the sky is when it’s a hurricane. </p><p>“Everyone who’s claimed to be on our side? They’re lying to us! Tubbo? He’s lying to you, man!” I insist, my voice trembling, and my heart beating out of my chest, as I begin to pace in front of my brother, wringing my hands and serating the skin away on my lip, feeing almost.. calm, when I taste blood, and realized I’ve split open my lip again. Same place, different wound… I suppose just like L’Manberg, in a way. Same place, different context to the tragedy. </p><p>“No, no, Will-” My brother tries to take a step towards me, and he seems to shrink when I pull myself away from him. I can see desperation crystalizing in his eyes, a need to get to me, to save something that was dead. I was dead. I was dying, and so was my dream, and the thing I’d invented for those kids. It was all decaying, and I cannot let him take the realization away from me, not now. Not after weeks of carefully whittling away at myself, making sure I was prepared. Making sure I knew exactly what I had to do.</p><p>“He would drop us at a second, he realizes we’re not in the lead anymore, alright?” I shout, gasping for breath amd walking towards Tommy, eyes wild and crazy, heart beating unsteadily, leaping out of my chest, as stray tears track down my cheeks. All I taste is blood, and this time, it isn’t just mine I’d provoked from chewing away at my lip, this time, it’s Fundy’s, Tommy’s, Niki’s… Techno’s. My Dad’s. Their blood is on my hands. </p><p>“No! Stop it!” Tommy screams, lifting his hands to his ears as he wails in agony, and shakes his head, as he backs up into the wall, his back hitting the side of the cave. He picks his head up to look at me, pain burning in the center of his pale blue eyes. He won’t stop screaming. He won’t let me get close. And I look down, biting down on my guilt, and silencing myself, straying my eyes away from Tommy’s.</p><p>“Wilbur. Please. Please, listen to me. I know-I know you think this is right, but this is nothing but you being reckless.” Tommy says, fighting to pull himself up off the ground, wiping his tears away and looking back at me, his eyes set in terror and alarm as he struggles to stand, flinching away from me whenever I try to get closer. </p><p>“You’re not being the man that I followed as president, do you not understand that? You’re not being my brother, Will! You’re scaring me, okay? This isn’t… it isn’t the right thing to do, this isn’t the moral <em> thing </em> to do. What’s the point in doing anything, if you’ve lost all hope? You’ve got to stay with it, man. Please, you’ve got to pull yourself together. For me. <em> Please </em>.” He begs, watching me from afar as tears track down his face, as he shakily he pulls himself to his feet and fixes his demenour, taking a deep breath, and pulling himself together, ignoring the tears tracking down his face as he fixes me with a look that radiates nothing but strength and power. </p><p>“I…” I say, staring off in the distance, of the cavern, ignoring the appearance of my brother, who struggles to walk towards me, holding his head up although from the tremor in his hands, I can tell he just wants to crumble, but I don’t know why he doesn’t. Why hasn’t he given in? How has he not? How can he stand there and try and assure me of something he knows doesn’t want him. How can he be this optimistic?  When did I lose that? When did I let that go? Is this right? Is my brother correct, am I really just feeding into my own fear of becoming another Schlatt? Did my own fear get me here? </p><p>“Will, Listen, listen to me! If you think that rigging, not igniting it, but if you think that rigging the city with TNT, will give us that advantage, I will… look at me… if you believe this, then I will follow you.” I look up at him, shock seeping into my being as his eyes bleed in hope, for a scrap of the gentle brother who played the guitar, but he was gone. He was dead, and as would be my country, once the dust finally clears, but for now, I suppose, for now I had to be reasonable, because I’ve learned by now, after my brother broke down, of course, that he just doesn’t understand shit about what has to happen, so now… now it’s time to play it diplomatic. It’s a big game of pretend. Give him the upper hand, surrender the pre-existing threat, right? Once I do that, everything should be fine. </p><p>“Look, rigging L’manberg is not going to help us get it back. I’m aware of that, but sometimes in order to feel comfortable and safe, you have to be ready to give up the things you’re worried you might lose.” I say, quietly, aimlessly running the edge of my teeth with my tongue. I feel like I’m in a daze, almost, my gaze drifting away from Tommy, and off to his right staring down into Pogtopia and feeling the pull of the beyond tug at me, a gentle soprano filling my ears. <em> I am so close, my love. I am so close. I just need more time. Just a bit more time. </em></p><p>“Wilbur… No. I’m not going to stop you, but I’m not going to go through with this, you’re being insane! You’re saying everyone’s against you and it’s just… it’s not-” I bite at my lip, bringing my finger to my lips, and shushing him, cracking my neck as I swallow down the taste of blood and metal, laughing as molten insanity drips off of me like rain does a roof in a monsoon. There were several of those ‘round these parts, they’d always bring back the frogs, make Niki and the boys ecstatic with glee as they’d watch them hop around from puddle to puddle.</p><p>“Will?” Tommy starts, stepping towards me when I start rocking back and forth on my toes. The noise disrupts me, almost… antagonizes me, and I whirl around to look at him, closing my fist as as a gesture to hush up.</p><p>“Shush, I’m thinking. Tommy, shut up! I’m thinking!” I say, narrowing my eyes, and beginning to pace, nerves kicking in, and heart beating about a mile an hour, the pace of my thoughts not helping calm the situation at all. For whatever reason, I seemed to be functioning on high alert, everything was clearer, the air was crisper, and it was, as if in all these revelations of chaos, I had somehow been restored to prime working order. Not a single cell out of place, and nothing, even more surprisingly, nothing that was hindering my breathing.</p><p>Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tubbo coming from above, dusting off his suit jacket and beginning to work his way down to us. I stay quiet, tracing his footsteps, waiting, looking at Tommy from the corner of eye, fear dappled across blue, as he swallows, gaze unwaveringly worried, looking from me, to up at Tubbo. </p><p>“Will?” His voice is quiet as he descends the landing, it sounds as if he’s afraid to disturb the silence, and to be honest, I don’t blame him, being the thing that breaks the silence, has always been, and always will be terrifying. Like shattering an heirloom porcelain vase on tile. It’s jarring, shocking, even.</p><p>“Tubbo! Tubbo, Tubbo, Tubbo! What did Schlatt say when we left?” I say, grinning when he finally reaches the landing, launching immediately into the question, barely even giving him time to say hello to Tommy, who seems to almost collapse when Tubbo goes to stand next to him, taking a deep breath to keep himself steady, eyes still alit in steady alarm.</p><p>“Not much, really. He got so intoxicated his words started slurring together, and Big Q had to take him home.” I grimace, exhaling my displeasure through a breath I’m trying to pass over as one taken for relaxation, instead of one to keep myself from punching the damn cave wall in front of me. </p><p>“And, uh, what are you doing in the festival, Tubbo?” I keep my tone even, restraining the scowl that threatens to thread its way across my lips and corrupt the false calm I’d created out of nothing. All it took was Tommy staying hushed, and somehow, even though I could feel how scared he was, saying nothing, and pretending like everything was… <em> perfectly fine </em>.</p><p>“I’m going to do some decorating, Fundy’s going to help me rebuild the grandstand, it’s going to be fun, I think!” From out of the corner of my eye, I see Tommy smile at his friend’s optimism, theone thing that seemed to always remain the same with the kid, regardless of what was happening around him. Tommy’s eyes search mine, darting back to Tubbo, and reaches for his hand. I don’t even see Tubbo hesitate when he’s registered Tommy’s silent request. I just see him take Tommy’s hand and struggle to hold onto his smile, eyes searching Tommy’s for any sort of emotional discrepancy, before he drags them away from his friend, and directs them back at me, features flickering with a steady smile. I purse my lips, watching him change his demeanor, reeking of a traitor, and even then, Tommy clings to him. Regardless of the fact that I could visibly see that neither Tubbo, or myself, were saying everything that we meant, Tommy kept putting blind faith into others, not ready for the consequences. </p><p>“I see.” I say briskly, quiet rage coating the tail ending of my words. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to remain calm. Forcing myself not to call out the kid as a traitor. For my mind had begun to convince myself of him being that, and that belief was held beyond a shadow of a doubt.</p><p>“Oh, and I have a speech! Sorry if I left out that bit.” He adds, eagerly, met with a supportive, incredibly overjoyed look from Tommy. He appears to be burning with pride for his friend, simultaneously proving my original unspoken theory of how his optimism is literally the most annoying thing I’ve ever seen, apart from it being a whole just act to disguise the fact that he is a literal traitor. </p><p>“Oh, a speech? On Manberg. And democracy.” I mock, biting my tongue taking a deep breath as I dig my nails into my palm, trying to ignore the boys’ excitement over some tyrannical speech thing that not only infuriated me to my core, but was taking the place of words that not only mattered, but that actually had a context that wasn’t connected to Schlatt and complete and total corruption of a nation that lead back to Schlatt, who toppled the whole thing over, like a stack of dominoes. Like father like son, I suppose. </p><p>“I am.” The boy smiles as he says this, looking up towards his friend who passes him a small, forced grin, eyes still lingering on mine, still trying, in waning desperation, and unsteady, growing resignation, to figure out the motives behind my own actions. It seemed like the three of us were in a game of cat and mouse, a game tarnished by the sage scent of distrust that clings to the air and wanes the safe haven we’d founded into one of hidden lies, and disguised motives, whispered promises of protection whirl around the the three of us, and become the last thing remaining, chaining us together for the final, ghostly refrain.</p><p>“Cool.” I whisper, sighing and taking a breath, chuckling and exhaling sharply from my nose, laughing up at the ceiling of the cavern, and watching as my brother’s shoulders fall, eyes darkening to the color of the ocean at midnight.</p><p>“It’s going to be exciting, I think.” Tubbo beams, not picking up Tommy’s frantic, terrified expression he flashes the boy’s way. His optimism was his fatal flaw. His childish insistence that people were good once a trust had been established. For being betrayed while by my side more times than I would like to tally, that lesson apparently never got learned. He could not pick up the energy of the room, or figure out that he was now being seen as a threat, a traitor. A betrayer. Someone who may have not been a friend for us anymore, or even an ally. But, Tommy was holding his hand, and standing right next to him, and that kid, no matter how little he knows of the world, he has a decent judge of others’ characters. He wouldn’t have gone to Tubbo to get away from me, if we were the same, right?</p><p>“That’s not something a traitor would do, is it?” I breathe, the question seeming to scorch the room, dripping in acid and poisoning the cavern air from cold to on edge, like a switch had been flipped.</p><p>“What do you mean?” Tubbo asks, eyebrows furrowed, hand visibly tightening around Tommy’s, who tenses, nostrils flaring, eyes roaming, searching the vicinity for the nearest exit. </p><p>“I was just wondering, cause writing a speech is quite something… but… do you actually believe it, Tubbo? Or are you just committing words to paper and not even batting an eye about the power those words possess?” I sneer, keeping my eyes directed at Tubbo in a slow, and as gentle as I can muster, scowl, taking a sort of sinister delight in how alarmed the both of them have become in just the spance of a few words. It was incredibly amusing to watch the effect mere words can have on people, especially words muddled with a tone dripping in the threat of kerosene and burnt-out fuses.</p><p>“Will, it’s just a speech. It’s just to introduce the event, that’s all. It doesn’t mean much, besides the fact that it’s just a speech.” He mumbles, playing with Tommy’s sleeve as he keeps his eyes lowered to the ground. I’m not sure Tommy really knows what to do in this situation, if I’m being honest, so he just sort of watches what’s happening play out, letting his friend play with his sleeve, as he watches this play out like a tennis match, eyes softening when they fall on Tubbo, and rising in alarm when they fall on me, which… I suppose I had coming. </p><p>“Are you sure? You’re awfully eager to write a speech in favor of what Schlatt of all people stands for.” I spit, biting my tongue so hard I can taste blood, eyes not leaving Tubbo’s, my hand clenching into a fist at my side. I am not sure why I was so fucking angry in front of this kid, but for whatever reason, I want to tear him to pieces emotionally and watch him finally tell the damn truth to me, instead of hiding behind carefully planned lies and dutifully held up alibis he was stringing along like popcorn on a Christmas tree.</p><p>“Wilbur, in their eyes, I work for Schlatt. It would be bad if I told him ‘no’, do you understand that? I would get interrogated, and my loyalty doubted. I have no choice but to write the speech, but you can take my word for this, I swear to you I am not a traitor of Pogtopia.” He says it genuinely enough, yeah, but did he mean it? Or was it all just a fucking act to deceive me and try and hurt my brother? Tubbo stayed. He stayed. There is a reason for that, and although being our spy seems decent enough, there has to be something else. There just has to be. </p><p>“We’ll see, Tubbo. We’ll see.” I say, grimacing as I get to my feet, sighing, and cricking my neck, the cracking of my bones making Tommy jump a tad, which I probably would have laughed at if I had any shred of self destruction. Laughing at Tommy in any context was usually, in his eyes, a reason to start yet another fight with someone, even if he himself provoked the laughter on purpose. </p><p> “For now, run back to Manberg. I have business I need to conduct on my own, and you have a briefing you need to be present for, do you not?” I snap, not looking at Tubbo as I yawn, scratching my head and looking up the stone walls of Pogtopia. Fuck, I need a cigarette, this has been trying my nerves and fucking with my fucking patience. </p><p>“Okay. Goodnight, Tommy. Wilbur. I’ll see you both later.” He says, turning away from us and making his way back to the stairs. Tommy hugs him, the boys staying in the embrace for a few seconds as I fumble with the cigarettes, placing one between my lips and lighting it with a match I drag across the wall, the noise of the strike sounding louder than it is, echoing along the walls, even long after I’ve extinguished the match under my boot and breath in the smoke, my shoulders dropping in relief as the smoke enters my lungs, and I catch myself sighing, closing my eyes as I exhale a cloud of smoke that billows up around me. </p><p>“Yeah, see you later, Tubbo. Stay safe on the way back.” I hear Tommy whisper to him, pulling the cig out from between my lips and tipping my head back and grimacing as the tobacco burns my already torn to shit throat and lungs, but laughing to myself as the cloud disperses into the air, getting my brother to gaze in my direction for half a moment, before he bites his lip, and goes back to saying his farewells to his friend. </p><p>“Will do.” Tubbo says, hugging my brother once more, before he makes his way up the cobble staircase, nearly tripping on a rock when he turns, making Tubbo sigh and wave him off, mumbling something about that wouldn’t have happened if he could go with him. That seems to make my heart stop, and I take a vengeful inhale of smoke, breathing in and feeling it burn away at my lungs. The feeling was nice, really. A bit dramatic, but it was better than getting angry. Not again. The kid deserved a fucking break, especially after… after what he said.</p><p>“He isn’t going to betray us, Wilbur. You don’t need to be so hard on him. It already stressful as it is, dealing with Schlatt and all that.” The boy says, and he sounds quieter than he did before, as if he was tired, and just wanted to sleep, which was valid. Tommy had been sleeping for maybe two to three hours on average, and was pretending the rest of the while by just limply staring into the ceiling, as time ticked away from him. He’d jokingly said to our older brother that after he got shot in the head, his capability to dream good things, was gone, so it was easier to sleep for little periods, to not tempt bad shit, which… it was easy to read between the lines with our baby brother. He was trying to use a joke to cover up the truth, and the truth being that he rarely slept anymore, and it more common for me to hear him awake screaming, than to hear about his dreams over breakfast, like what used to go on when we were children. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t wrong. About this, especially. And his stubbornness to admit that, was slowing down the process of this master fucking plan of mine.</p><p>“And how do you know? Did you when Eret betrayed us? I don’t think so. None of us expected it to be them, and it was. I am not getting caught off guard again by something like that, Tommy. I refuse to be played for the fool, and have everything ripped out from underneath me once again, do you hear me?” I snap, angrily breathing in smoke and scratching at skin, meeting my brother’s bright blue eyes with a scowl that, by how he was looking at me now, was apparently enough to scorch the skin. </p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, Will, I hear you. I suppose you’re right. But it’s Tubbo, he-” He jumps when I smack the wall with my hand, turning back to look at him and shaking my head, glaring and biting at my tongue, forcing down the cruel spew of words that come to the forefront, abandoning them for something far more dynamic, and one could even say diplomatic, if they wanted to be generous. </p><p>“Tommy! Whether it’s Tubbo or not if I find a traitor, I will tear them to fucking shreds, are we clear?” I whisper, drawing out the syllables until I can tell they’ve burned him, watching as he himself turns away and backs into the darkness, stumbling over the same rock Tubbo had not even two minutes earlier.</p><p>“We’re clear, Will. We’re <em> crystal </em>clear.” He mumbles as he walks down towards the cots, a yawn heard before him and his basketball shirt disappear around the corner. Again, I pull the cig out from between my lip and tap off the ash, watching as it flutters to the ground, smoke billowing around me as I exhale watching the cloud wind its way to the heavens, slouching against the wall and inhaling another lungful of smoke.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> (water break, everybody, this chapter is long as shit.) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s hours before dawn’s earliest light breaks the horizon when I wordlessly look over towards my brother, whose back is towards me. Loud, snores echo from his corner that seem to shake the whole room, and I sigh, yawning as I aimlessly pull on my boots, flinching at the sudden movement of him turning over in his sleep and mumbling about something inaudible. I have half the mind to immediately pretend to be asleep, fingers wrapping around the edges of my blanket, before Tommy settles again and I take a breath, relief coursing through me as I grab for my boots, and pull on my coat.</p><p> I creep, silently out of the room, and begin to make my way, precariously, up the rickety cavern bridges, making a point to step with care so I don’t go and break my neck due to the fact that most of our lanterns have gone out, and the amount of light I had to work with was honestly not preferable, especially with the fact that our cavern bridges may have improved with the appearance of my twin, Tubbo and Niki, who actually made an effort to not have anybody fall through old, rotting wood because I just did not want to spend time fixing it, especially because I genuinely have no idea how I would even go about fixing that, and am surprised those three managed it. </p><p>Waking up the staircase up towards the world of the living, was very cold, I have to admit. I forgot my scarf, because I’m stupid, and even though it’s approximately 4:29am in the morning, I seem to forget that that is how temperature works at this hour. Truth be told, I was terrified. My breathing was threatening to cave in upon itself, like the very bridge I walk upon, my heart was beating so fast it sounds like the ticking down of a bomb, and even that comparison… stings. It hurts my chest, and constricts my ribs, knowing what I have to do, and how there is no way out for me, not really. And the truth of that statement scared me more than I really cared to admit too, because if I keep myself going, hold my determination, fear of the aftermath can’t hurt me. It won’t hurt me until the quiet has set in, and that will not be for quite a while. </p><p>I step into the landing and pull the plywood aside, bracing against a cold, slightly icy breeze that whistles through the valley outside. I am careful not to give myself yet another splinter from the scuffy piece of wood that seemed to almost have it out for me as I drag it closed, stepping forward and taking a deep breath, exhaling fresh, unpanicked air for maybe the first time today. I turn my head skyward, observing the how slowly the clouds are moving, blocking out the occasional star cluster from my view, the moon hanging low in the sky, ready to sink below the horizon and welcome the morning.</p><p>“Good morning, Wilbur.” A low voice says from behind a tree, the sharp grin of his a white mask coming into view as he steps out from behind the trunk of the tree, as I flinch withdrawing away from him and clutching at my shirt, taking a deep, shaky breath. For a hot moment, I thought the green man was something else, something that lurked in the night, and I was about to get thrown into the afterlife prematurely, which would suck. The crickets sound like they are laughing at me, and maybe its because I had thought Dream was something that would instantly kill me instead of delaying it, like some fool who hadn’t had to deal with him for actual years. It was a bit hurtful, and resolved my internal debate about how much internal hatred I possess for crickets. </p><p>“Oh, my fucking god, you really just came out of the fucking darkness. Um, good morning, Dream, how are you?” I say, fighting to calm my breathing and accelerating heartbeat. I can tell he’s smiling, I don’t know how, but I can just tell he’s happy he caught me off guard, which is extremely off putting, especially with being able to only see the smile drawn onto his mask, and just the very edge of his eyebrow. </p><p>“Good very early morning to you, Wilbur. How was the festival?” He inquires, his tone even, and the ghost of what I hope is a playful smile audible in his tone, the only thing keying me in on how to read the situation, a thing I tend to rely on eye contact, or body language to determine, but with Dream, he does what he wants, like leaning against a tree and only showing emotions from behind a mask, and the ones he let through onto his voice. But, I can learn to adapt, and I grin, scoffing. The fury of this afternoon still scratches at my nerves, whittling away at my patience, and hold over the situation. </p><p>“A load of shit, really. Led by a man who… who makes me want to wring someone’s neck, to be fully honest. Do you know that that man was fucking drunk when he gave his speech? He was so intoxicated his <em> fiance </em>had to carry him home. And that’s just… the stain he is upon that country boils my blood, Dream.” I growl, spitting my words out onto the dirt, letting it poison the air, and destroy the feeling of the present, ripping the calm of the night to shards of a broken, antique mirror. </p><p>“Well, it won’t be here for long. Soon there won’t be anything to stain.” His voice is like honey, and even though I know I shouldn’t allow it, it sinks into the depths of my bones, and for a moment allows me a moment of rage-relieved clarity. The anger I’d previously been using to barricade the angry shards of what I suppose was my heart, burns away, and leaves me with nothing but a sort of dulled relief. He was right, of course. Manberg won’t last for much longer, so why should I spend the rest of my time here, tethered to her previous counterpart’s much more admirable memory, and letting it destroy me? I was not the one who was destined for destruction, after all, not entirely. I was just an enabler, a horsemen of my very own apocalypse, and that I should think, is something thrilling, and not, instead, something of ruin. It was not ruin, it was a new beginning. </p><p>“You’re right. You’re right, Dream. I shouldn’t be worrying about that, it’s delaying us… it’s dragging me down into doubt, and I can’t let even a scrap of that in, because once it gets in my mind it’s just there, y’know?” I say, sniffling due to the morning chill, as I tap the side of my head, nodding diligently to myself.</p><p>“Like a parasite, clinging to a host, in a sense? Yeah, I know how that feels. But… doubt and guilt are worse. They eat away at you, unless you figure out a way you yourself can destroy it until it just… doesn’t affect you anymore.” I smile, chuckling under my breath, rubbing my eyes and sighing, taking a sort of strange, melancholic delight in how the breath I exhale leaves me in a cloud, a faded resemblance to that of enter, burning into my being, stinging the moment, as my mind begins to race. <em> The Ides of Winter. Reckoning is coming, and it will come quickly. </em></p><p>“Oh. I see. This directly correlates to our deal, doesn’t it?” I say, swallowing down panic, and grinning slyly as I look over the rim of my glasses to meet Dream’s mask’s eyes, grinning when he seems to nod slowly. I chuckle, looking up at the stars as a phantom shrieks from the distance, knowing his scream will not stop the slow creep of dawn, no matter how loud or gut wrenching it becomes. No one will be there for it when it catches aflame, and falls from the heavens, like Icarus from hell. </p><p>“It does. Why are you having second thoughts?” He says, his voice grows quiet towards the end, as if heavy in quiet threats, and irate displeasure. He sounded as if he was testing the waters, testing my own dedication. It wasn’t as if he needed too. I’d talked myself into it, and even though doubt is a bitch, it’s a bitch I was willing to fuck with if I had too. </p><p>“Not second thoughts. Just a brutal change of perspective.” I say, swallowing down a cough as I meet the mask’s eyes, forcing a gentle smile from the depths of my brain that still care to respond to me. It made sense, fighting self destruction, biting back whenever I threatened total annihilation of the very chunks I stand on. I’d stopped thinking the way it had grown accustomed to, and my mind had began to resent me for it, biting back when I start to idolize destruction and decay, instead of creation and the gentle hymn of new beginnings. I lit my eyes from the ground, biting at my lip and frowning slightly. I am getting very tired of having to speak to a mask. Especially one that looks as sadistic as the one in front of me.</p><p> “Dream, are me and Tommy the bad guys in this situation? When we do blow up Manberg, will we become the villains in their history?” I breathe, pursing my lips and staring, angrily at the emotionless, persistent smile painted upon Dream’s mask. I fight to keep my eyes as emotionless as possible, trying my best to remember to breathe, forcing out a ragged breath. The ability seemed to escape me while focusing, and it was a long term habit, a bad one. Fueled by the shrapnel and gunpowder that had entered by lungs years prior when we were at war, that made breathing already tedious, and painful, leading to long periods of time where I would just… forget to breathe, which is mostly responsible for the embarrassing amount of times I’ve passed out in the middle of doing something stressful, forcing me to get dragged away to get resuscitated by either Niki or my brother, which, if it happened during presidential speeches, which it did, burned my core in sheer and utter embarrassment. </p><p>“No. If anything, they’ll try and write you out of it, but… I don’t think your story will just end here, Wilbur. Besides, you’re not the bad guys. Not really. This happens in politics all the time, and sometimes rulers are unfit to serve, and they have to be cast aside. They did this to you unprovoked. They have provoked the same treatment out of us, have they not?” I am not sure how to take this besides stepping back, mouth open, and eyes winded, as I swallow down confusion and look to the ground, allowing my thoughts to pull me underwater. You cannot write someone out of something they invented, and that theory might be foolish, but I didn’t want to venture even further down that road of uncertainty. But he’s right. Leaders fall, countries do, too, all the time. I knew that, I was well aware of it going into office the first time, but I had been forcibly removed from that position by a tyrant. So go figure, and fuck politics. I wish I’d stayed as a musician, sometimes. I really do. </p><p>“Yeah, yeah, they have. And you’re right, Dream. I didn’t get kicked out because I’d done something wrong, I got kicked out because they wanted me gone. They wanted their freedom to corrupt themselves by the drink that is power. Dream, I want to be your vassal. Look, I understand you have a lot of TNT, okay? The old trinitrotoluene, as they call it, right?” I say, grinning and gnawing at my lip, trying to suppress a supple laugh threatening to knock through my lungs and destroy me in a fit</p><p>of brutal coughs, that I knew, this time, would provoke blood from my torn-to-shit throat, and if I really focused, I could taste the steel from the shrapnel trying to burn a hole through my tongue, and nearly succeeding, if I cared to give it credit, which I shouldn’t. Feeding into it almost always makes it worse. </p><p>“I do, yes. I have a bit.” He says, and I can almost hear the glee in his voice, the satisfaction of hearing a promise of destruction fall from my lips causing him to almost… giggle. And it wasn’t a pleasant thing to hear, either. It burned in malignance and the ivory chaste of trying to scrub away, old dried blood that had long fallen upon skin. I didn’t like it. But, I enjoyed hearing it. It was assuring to me, in some strange way, reinforced the knowledge that this was not just empty promises, this was happening. He was helping me, for some reason, and I owed it to him to be grateful. </p><p>“Well, good. I want to… I want to set this up, I want to rig the city.” I whisper, voice subtle and heart beating out of my chest, a steady, giddy smile spreading across my lips as I exhale deeply into the night, banishing the final remains of doubt along with the air from my lungs. I can hear the destruction, already, and I relish in it, basking in the joy that burned from the heat that trickled up into the night from Schlatt’s stupid, narcissistic podium that makes me want to gag and choke someone out, brutally, like the smoke did to me. It would be fun to watch that man’s world crumble, to watch it explode, and burn to cinders, taking delight in it, the same way that he had when he forced us out, the sound of his laugh still singing at my ears as he just sat and watched me and my barely sixteen year old brother flee, pursued by hollers and whoops at the very idea of a chase, the whistle of stray arrows flying past us and imbedding themselves into the birch trees around us. </p><p>“I see. I have thirty sticks of explosives with me tonight, I’ll bring you the other eighty tomorow, alright? Where would you like to meet me? Is there an easier way to get into Pogtopia, so we’re not just… out in the open?” I grin, watching as Dream pulls a bundle wrapped in canvas out of his satchel, and hands it off to me. The bundle is nothing but explosives, and once this realization hits I grin, and turn away from it, and up the eyes painted upon the mask.</p><p>Suddenly, Dream steps backwards, and I hear the unsteady breathing spill out from behind me, and I whirl around my eyes met with fearful blue ones, their owner shaking, and tremoring so much I was shocked he was still able to hold his sword, and probably would congratulate him if his eyes did not burn in malice for me, forcing me to clamp my mouth shut, looking to the ground, forcing to regain my thoughts. </p><p>This was a problem. Fuck, why couldn’t this kid just not be nosy for once in his life? Does he not know I’m trying to deal with this, that I’m trying to fix it? It may not be what he wanted, but it has to happen, I have no other choice. What we had created that place for, was gone. There was nothing left but bricks and mortar.  whether Tommy was aware of my intentions or not, I knew what had to be done, and this plan… It had been painstakingly molded, created, and pondered over, for weeks, and I was not about to back out of it now. I stare at him, eyes emotionless and expression neutral, trying to my anger; to bite my tongue. <em> Damn it. And everything was going so well with Dream, too. Fuck.  </em></p><p> “ What are you <em> doing </em>, Wilbur? It’s Dream! Do you not remember what he did? Do you not remember the shit he put us through?” My brother demands, eyes wide as he stares, unblinkingly, at Dream. Tears tracking down his face, and his hand shaking as it grips the hilt of his sword. He was clearly terrified, his knees shake and the scar running from his left cheek, over the bridge of his nose, and settling in to his hairline seems more prominent, seemingly accentuated by the fact that the man who gave it to him, was standing maybe four paces in front of me, completing the end of a deal, to solidify the end of our home indefinitely, his hand not yet fully lowered from when he had handed me the bundle containing the sticks of dynamite.</p><p>“Tommy, listen. Listen to me, this is happening whether you want it to, or not, I’m not waiting anymore. There’s no need to be afraid of him, anyways, he’s on our side. Besides, Dream doesn’t want us to win, okay? He just wants both Manberg and Potgtopia to be weak, and Dream, I’m not scolding you on this, that’s smart, you’re a smart guy, so I’m here. I’m here to help you weaken them, to make them be reduced to nothing more.” I ignore the horror that ripples across Tommy’s face, diverting my attention back to Dream, who’s closed the distance he’d created when Tommy had surfaced from the depths of Pogtopia, and he seems eager, as excitement burns off him, the opportunity I’d just voiced to him, evident, and painstakingly clear as he nods, seemingly pleased by my words. I suppose I’ve finally proved that it is through my efforts, as well as his, that Manberg will fall. It will not be burdened with his name, but instead, with mine. Wilbur the mad king, who up and lost his head. I’d love to see the songs written about my own tragedy, although I don’t believe I will live to hear it. Maybe it’ll be better than way. More creative freedom to brutally honest about me, then they would have if I was there.</p><p>“I want Manberg and Pogtopia to be nothing more, because they are nothing. They stand for nothing, and it’s about time you boys realized that, and I’m glad one of you are, it’s refreshing. But you’re not understanding me, I still want L’Manberg to be… to be <em> something </em>.” That made… some sense. Not the part of Manberg and Pogtopia being ‘nothing more’, because that wasn’t wrong, that was absolutely correct, but the bit where he still wanted Manberg to be… that was when my reading comprehension flatlined a bit, but at this point, as long as it was gone, I was fine with whatever, and I knew what he meant, so… I guess that’s good enough. </p><p>“Why do you want L’Manberg? Dream you’re the whole reason we made L’manberg in the first place, do you not remember that? You’re the first one who inspired the need for independence, to begin with!” Tommy shouts, eyes looking like steel, harsh and unfaltering as he glares at Dream, who seems completely unaffected by any of it, but owing to the mask, I honestly wouldn’t know how exactly he was reacting, unless he acted upon it, but to guess, I could say it was around the same as me, irritated and fucking annoyed at my little brother for what felt like the hundredth time this week. He just couldn’t understand that not everything has to concern him. Not everything is something he has to have an input on. And besides, the adults were speaking with each other, we had no place for the child and his stupid attachments. I’d long severed mine, but he… he still hasn’t come to that realization, and he would fall from the heavens due to that.</p><p>“Listen, to me, Schlatt is ambitious. He’s greedy, power hungry. He wants to expand, but you guys? You guys just wanting your own little area to just frolic in the flowers, and that’s just fine with me.” I chuckle, biting at my lip as I exhale an easy laugh. He wasn’t wrong, which made it even funnier. The ‘frolicking’, as thus described, really did just delay the inevitable. We stayed away from the flaws that burdened us and pretended everything was fine, and enabled the slow descent of a failed system, of my own failed system, until things reached nothing but chaos, and normality blew away, taken by the winds of a hurricane of the unknown.</p><p>“But you weren’t fine with it when we had our war, Dream. Why is that?” Tommy demands, eyes narrowing in Dream’s direction. The stars are very exceptionally pretty today, I must admit. They are practically glowing, the milky way looks like tiny, miniscule diamonds, and the glitter Fundy managed to get literally everywhere when he went through his glitter phase, which, as abominable as said glitter was to get out of literally everything, it was still incredibly endearing to witness. Probably one of my favorites, if I’m fully honest.</p><p>“Maybe I had a change of heart.” Dream offers, and I raise my eyebrows in quiet amusement, scoffing and I look towards the possible movement coming from a tree towards the right of me so Tommy doesn’t catch my grin, and instead I run my tongue along the edge of my teeth, ignoring the tense silence around me, as I squint, trying to pick up whatever the hell moved the tree, and what exactly could have caused a branch to literally thwack violently upwards towards something uncertain extremely suddenly.</p><p>“Maybe you had a… Dream, what-” Tommy says, shaking his head. I grow tired of listening to it, and a new need to see destruction courses through me, and I laugh pulling my beanie off my head and running my hands through my hair, eyes wide and crazed as the fuse of sanity burns up, crazed, and manic laughter spilling out into the night. </p><p>“Dream, this has made this ambitious! Dream, let me blow it up! Allow me to destroy it!” I shout, wrapping my arms around the back of my head, and ignoring as a small shiver shakes my being, my neck twitching uncontrollably as rage and untapped power filters through my bloodstream, burning my soul and lungs. Tommy is looking at me, his eyes wide and full of concern, as his shoulders slump in defeat as he shakes his head and backs away from me. </p><p>“Wilbur, no. No, this isn’t… it isn’t right. L’Manberg’s our home. You can’t. You can’t, Wilbur.” Tommy whispers, and I find my heart burning when I catch the sight of tears tracking down his face, but I can’t that effect me, and I bite the inside of my cheek, pushing aside attachment and familiar relationships, and breathing in the scent of explosives and the sound of blood rushing in my ears. It would be soon, and I could not permit my absolution to be delayed. Not now. Not when I was this far ahead. Now that wouldn’t be fair for me. Emotions were a plaything, they were easy to mold, easy to defend in the moment, but in the wide spance of things, they were temporary, these tears would not last forever, but the backlash of never finishing the thing I’d created, that would. And it would wind up killing me, more brutally than simply TNT and willpower would.</p><p>“Tommy, that place doesn’t want us. We got exiled. And even then, it has not been what it was for years. It’s about time someone pulled the plug, and I have the right, to kill it, do you understand? I was the one who wrote it into being in the first place!” I command, watching as my brother cowers in on himself, his eyes filling with horror, as I throw my hands out, accentuating my point as I raise my voice to a shout, the volume causing my brother to nearly flinch, a sight that for reasons I shove away, made me happy I was in charge, and I took an odd sense of delay that he was well aware of that. </p><p>“We gained independence because of me, Wilbur. Because of me and Tubbo.” The boy whispers, diverting his eyes from me and flinching again when I scoff and shake my head, burning disbelief filtering into my being. I was getting fed up with this game between us. Why could he not just listen and absorb what I’d said the first time? I know what I was doing, why can’t he just leave me alone with it?</p><p>“Tommy. Tommy. Tommy, listen to me, okay? You were never in charge, Tommy! You were never in charge of this situation. Ever!” I shriek, anger flaring up as I yank at my hair by the roots, and shake my head, trying my best to take a deep breath to make myself seem more calm. I want nothing more than to tune him out. I didn’t have time for this. I needed to plan, I needed to figure out the said plan’s logistics, and I couldn’t while my sixteen year old baby brother lectured me on fucking ethics and morals. I don’t care, I just want to watch Manberg’s destruction, and be the hand that helped in her dying. Ethics and morals didn’t matter, because Schlatt didn’t care about them, and because of that he had the upper hand, and to rip that away from him, we had to take a page out of his book. Even if it was an idea I know Tommy hated and Niki would loathe, I didn’t have much choice. </p><p>“Wilbur, this isn’t right.” Tommy says, and I scoff, rolling my eyes at him and fixing him with a steady glare, which surprisingly, does the trick, and the kid shuts up, even for just a moment, giving me the space to be able to think so I can formulate a response.</p><p>“Tommy, I don’t care.” I say, scoffing in his direction, shaking my head and exhaling, angrily through my nose, watching as he seems to deflate under my anger. I was glad he was taking the hint. I was even more relieved that the kid was learning his place, and was learning to hold his fucking tongue while I was trying to do business.</p><p>“Sorry, about that, Dream. You’ll, uh, you’ll get me the eighty sticks by tomorrow night, right, Dream?” I say, taking a deep breath and forcing a smile as my eyes fall upon the grin painted upon the mask. It didn’t seem cruel anymore. Not really. It just seemed… hopeful, and maybe a bit lonely. There was bad intentions inside of all of us, that’s why the world can’t magically just get ‘fixed’ on its own. Can’t resent someone for their own anger, or I suppose I’d be drowning in a mess of my own self hatred for the things I’d thought up these past few days. It’s hard to remember your own heart is ash, when you dream of flames towering into the air above a stupid wooden podium. God, I have it out for that thing. Watching that stupid thing be destroyed will be the highlight of my day, I swear to god. </p><p>“Correct. And I’ve already given you the thirty you have on you, so… make sure you put them… somewhere safe.” I nod, passing Dream a hesitant, what I hope is a reassuring grin, and is probably far from that, but A+ for effort, I suppose. As long as I keep my fingers crossed I had an enderchest nearby, because due to Tommy’s current defense, he was preparing for a fight, and it was probably against me, because last time he went up against Dream he got an arrow to the forehead, and although he’s one dense son of a bitch who is more stubborn than a Capricorn in the middle of January, I think the arrow to the forehead thing definitely drove the lesson of not fucking with Dream, home. </p><p>Which didn’t exactly bode well for me, I had misplaced my sword, and had a suspicion my twin brother had confiscated it to either mend it, clean it, or maybe just because he deemed me having a sword was a shitty idea because I am unstable, or whatever the fuck. To be fair, bookshelves are on the off occasion, extremely unstable due to the four-hundred, some odd James Patterson novels that are somehow a real thing, but that doesn’t mean that they get thrown out of the house and chopped into firewood, it just wasn’t fair. I’d have to pay my brother and his potatoes a visit for my sword back, and if that isn’t going to be the performance of a century, I don’t know what will be.</p><p>“Dream, c’mon, dude, you can see he’s unstable, you can tell he isn’t thinking correctly… I know we hate each other, but please… please don’t enable this shit. I’m begging you, dude, please. Please don’t do this.” Fury gnaws on my sanity and I shoot Tommy a look, the boy folding in himself, and looking to the ground, sniffling. I turn my eyes back up to Dream, chuckling, and holding myself as emotionless as I can possibly muster, biting down rage and anxiety. I was not this unstable man on a bender. Tommy was wrong. He was wrong. He had no right to talk to me like that, no fucking right. That child needs to learn to hold his tongue, and if this is what it takes, then so be it. Manners will be learned, or they will forced, and sometimes… that’s hard to hear.</p><p>“Thank you, Dream. I’ll make you proud.” My voice sounds hollow, as if rage had chipped away at the bass it once it held, and is now reducing it to only a fraction of what it once was, it was fitting of a mad man, which I suppose is who I was becoming to my brother and the world I once coveted. It was telling by the way he tried to plead with Dream to withhold something from me, his president, all because of some unsung insanity he swore he could see in my eyes, but I knew that was bullshit. I had not yet set that dove free, so there was no reason for alarm. Not really.</p><p>“Tommy, drop it. You really don’t want to anger me now.” I hiss as Tommy tried to open his mouth to speak again, which is interrupted when I throw my arm out in front of him, and fixing him with a death stare that would rival Techno’s, and again, I watch his shoulders slump, and defeat trickle in to him, and I take a strange delight in knowing that I have secured the upper hand, which should not be a feat. My baby brother should know his place in all this. Especially when it is best to shut up. Like now. I would appreciate it heavily if the kid just… shut up and went back downstairs. He could yell at me later, I just had to get this resolved first.</p><p>“Okay. Okay.” He says, apparently relenting when he backs away and sighs, eyes not leaving me, as if he’s surveying me, like a hawk, or something. The moment he notices me reach for the whole canvass bundle of explosives that I’d dropped in order to pull my beanie off my head, his eyes widen and he looks at Dream in pure and utter shock. Apparently, he must have thought that I was bluffing about the whole explosives thing, or something, and I really don’t know how. But, regardless of that, I barely register how quickly that boy reacts to me moving towards our enderchest in our dirt foyer, and I probably would not notice, if I didn’t see the panic ripple through his blue eyes, and the moment he stands in front of the doorway, blocking my access to the enderchest, the action making me set my jaw in anger, exhaling as I pinch the bridge of my nose, meeting Tommy’s eyes with one of annoyance, and extreme fucking frustration. I was getting very exhausted of dealing with this child, of having to put up with his shit, and I sigh and run the edge of my teeth with my tongue, meeting Tommy’s eyes with one of disgust and a rage I will probably never be able to quench, and by the time I manage it, it will probably be far too late.</p><p>“Wilbur! Wilbur! Wilbur, <em> stop </em>. Look at me. Hand me that TNT.” I look at the bundle in my hand, and then back at my brother, swallowing down anxiety, pain, and panic. I could not cave because his eyes reminded me of my son’s. I could not abandon my purpose. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand why I kept at this, and that was okay, but I just wish he could let me have this. That he could understand that this finale was not about hurting any of them, but the ones who had torn our home away and poisoned it. Reducing it to nothing but ash, blackened cinders, and shattered hopes. What he remembered Manberg as… it was as good as gone. I step forward, ready to…. I’m not sure what, exactly, but probably try my hand at yelling some sense into him, before Dream steps in front of us, hand ghostly along the hilt of his sword. </p><p>“Tommy, I’ll have to step in if you ask him to do that. Back away.” We cannot see his expression, but his tone is heavy in unspoken malice, and grim-heavy handed threat. I have no doubt that if pressured, he would attack my brother. In a single skewed heartbeat of Tommy’s he would be dead, but why would Dream protect me from that? Did he seriously value our cause that much? For if he did, than I have seriously underestimated my masked friend with the explosives, and that… that deserves to be on me. </p><p>“Okay.” He says, eyes skimming from me to Dream, shoulders slumping when he realizes who exactly I have allied myself beside, hands up in surrender, fear flashing across his face, and I am sure the whistle and dreadful thunk of the arrow that lodged itself in his skull, is playing over and over again in his mind, with enough repetition for it to fit in the melody of the clicks of a lighter. </p><p>“Okay, Dream. But, this… it isn’t right. This just isn’t right. I’m on your side, Wilbur, believe me I am, but this isn’t the way to get it back, and you know it. It can be what it once was, this is just going to delay everything, and do nothing to help us forward in the end. Please, Will. Please. We just need more time to make a plan, and…” I don’t believe him, in all honesty. It wasn’t what it once was, even when we weren’t fucking banned from going within ten feet of the city limits. Manberg was corrosive, and its acid was eating away at all of us, turning us against the other, and turning a country into a battleground. He was blinded by his own attachment, and therefore could not recognize or understand change when it presents itself to him, and how can one encourage flames, when he himself has not exposed to himself to fire? He was still terrified of such destruction, for the last time echoed blindly in his mind, and that made more sense than I cared to admit. </p><p>“Tommy, I love your buzzwords, I really do, but nothing you’re saying matters. Look, Dream thank you very much. I’ll do what you asked, I’ll rig it up, I’ll blow it up to detonate and we’ll be all set, and this festival, when Tubbo starts doing his speech, make sure you’re nowhere nearby, because that’s when it’ll go up in flames, okay?” I chuckle, nodding at Dream as he makes his way wordlessly away from me, a low melody distantly audible from him before he vanishes into the darkness, my attention turning back to my brother, eyes glinting with the appeal of the flame. It doesn’t take much for me to smell gunpowder, and I let it corrode at me, biting and thrashing, making the last droplets of reason evaporate under the boot of destruction. There was no use in humoring what my brother was saying, because the choice had already been made, regardless of whatever bullshit he still somehow could bear to preach to me, like a broken disc, never slowing, content only growing gradually more worn and boring. He was a bore, preaching and glorifying the last words of a dead country, that he had missed the cremation for.</p><p>“Wilbur…” He breathes, shaking his head and trying to reach for me, biting his lip when I pull away from him, a strange, uncomfortable shiver that burned at my spine setting aflame my body and I look away from him, towards the theatre of dawn in the sky and the distant sound of my own phantom, the thing crying out in glitching agony as it feels the sun creep up onto the horizon, and starts searching for a place to die. </p><p>“It’ll go up in flames… okay? And then… and then everything will be okay. Everything will be fine again, just trust me, Tommy. You trust me, right? Do you trust your brother?” I demand, grabbing him by his shoulders, my breath seeming to run out of control, rendering my breathless and lightheaded, eyes intense and staring through his eyes, as molten hot tears track down my face that I make no effort to wipe away. It just… wasn’t worth it. Let them burn my flesh. Let them consume me, I did not care, for my vessel did not matter. I was a ticket to destruction, burdened with the empty promise of unholy creation, turned sour by the corrosive nature of power. </p><p>“Of course I do, Will. You know I do.” He whispers to me, eyes meeting mine and I want to look away, to separate myself from his gaze, but I cannot. He has locked me in, and I cannot escape. I am forced to be confronted by the very person I was failing, and it felt as if my heart was being burned in a fiery plinth of kerosene and gunpowder. </p><p>“Then what’s the problem? Believe in me, Tommy! Dream does, that’s why he gave me the explosives, right? Please, I can do this. Have faith that I can do this.” I cry, my voice shattering like a porcelain vase upon a wall of stone. I recognize that I am begging for freedom from him, for his blessing. So I know that even if he does not understand why I am burdened with the promise of destruction, he still knows that I am doing this for him and for them. So they have a chance to make it right in all the places that I never could.</p><p>“Whatever’s tearing you apart, Will, we can fix it together. You don’t have to do this alone.” He whispers, bringing his hand to my cheek and grinning at me in the way that he’d picked up from me. It was our thing, you could say, but now… now it just burned in guilt and arsoned agony. I was failing him, but I didn’t know how, and the not knowing was I suppose what he meant by what was tearing me apart, but at this point, it could very well be a soul unused to causing destruction, splintering off at the very thought of causing it. </p><p>“This is how I fix it, Tommy. There’s nothing else to do about it. And I know that Niki and my brother and our father won’t like that, but… this is how I fix my mistakes. This is how I make it safe for you and my son, okay? Please… please just believe that, Tommy. <em> Please </em>.” I gasp, trying to pull in my breathing, to even it out, make it not hysterical, but I fail, and the entire sentence drips in sobs cut off into words, and words segue into instable thoughts, and I find myself collapsing when I breathe out the please, gripping my brother’s shoulders as if it was the last thing keeping me tethered to not fucking collapsing into a fit of coughing, the shrapnel had been provoked by me grating my throat dry from losing it, and flying into well deserved hysterics, that, he apparently was not going to abandon me for. Not yet, at least.</p><p>“Okay. Okay. Okay, Wilbur. I believe you. I believe you. Just… just know that home wouldn’t be home without the people I love, okay? It wouldn’t have hurt that much if I didn’t think we were leaving them behind. But we didn’t. Tubbo visits sometimes for intel, Techno makes us dinner… we have what really matters in the long run, right here. We don’t need to blow it up, we-” I sniff, laughing as I dig my nails into my palms, tremoring as I lift my eyes up to meet Tommy’s, who looks as if he has already begun to mourn my death, and in all honesty, I can’t blame him. Dealing with this… and me… at his age? I know I fucking couldn’t. Fuck, when does protecting become accidentally harming the ones I love? And when does my need to keep my boys safe, become destructive? Had it already? Was I making shit worse?</p><p>“I do, though, Tommy. Manberg is corrupted, it is poisoning my memory of her, and I cannot allow it to continue, you have to let me do this. You have to let me kill it. You have to let me get rid of them, or they’re just going to finish doing that to me. I don’t want to fall away from you, Tommy, so I’m doing this instead, okay? Please don’t intervene. I know what I’m doing. I know how to do this.” He doesn’t say anything but nod, biting mercilessly at his lip, and turning away from me and rips open the plywood fake-out door away, and steps into darkness, dragging the thing closed. I stand there, turning my head until it rests on my shoulder my neck screaming in protest. I lean against the wall, grinning as a dull ringing fills the expanse of my mind, and I catch myself beginning to laugh, falling against the wall, and sliding down it, my eyes fixating on the dirt in front of me, as I take a deep breath, tasting the blood from the shrapnel, and the gunpowder that clings to the memory, pulling me up from the ground, and taking me down the staircase, stopping when I reach the end, looking out into the cavern of Pogtopia.</p><p>I let myself descend into a heap of crazed laughter, and coughs that hack up crimson spatters of blood, as I cling onto the guard rail and look up into the dying light of the cave, as if it was the very first time, and the fact that one day I would be standing here looking upon it for the last fills my senses, and I collapse against the wall, wordlessly allowing my eyes to linger, committing the expanse of cavern to memory. I let the oil from the lanterns burn out and drip onto the stone below. I smile as the darkness spills in around me, cradling itself around me like it was glad to see me, with nothing but the sound of my own frantic heartbeat gradually slowing to steady <em> thump </em>, the only reminder that I was even alive in the first place. Alive to taste the air, and watch the sea, and have hands that were the ones to destroy our home, and laugh when it was all over, ignoring the feeling of a space freeing up far, far away as I laugh into the morning, the sun barely even peeking over the horizon. I had a symphony to compose. A new one. A better one, and this time it would tick down the hours until everything was leveled, and the land burned in the language of chunk error.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i am so sorry for not updating this since, like feb 21, life got out of control, and i had to take care of my mental health and balance school work for a bit, but now everything's back to normal, and i can get back to writing and posting more regularly!<br/>i do hope you enjoy this, it was one of my absolute favorites to write!</p><p>as always, i hope your existence in this moment is very good!<br/>-el &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Pink In The Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Thinking never got a dead man anywhere, you know? Dead people stay in their graves, trying to keep in good graces with whoever is the ruling power over their soul. They have no need for hymns, or symphonies, or battles… and I can see the luxury it presents, but it was not a luxury I cared to attain, quite possibly for once in my life.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello! i hope your day is really good, goodness, i am so excited about this chapter, she took such a while to figure out, and i'm so excited about getting her out there! i took some creative liberties with one of our characters, and i am excited about your thoughts on that, even though it deviates from canon however slightly, but regardless, i hope ya'll think it's pretty poggers. also, i am so sorry about being slow with the chapter updates, i have so much i need to flesh out, and want to get this as good as possible! the song is 'pink in the night', by mitski. also, the long-awaited quackity lore was tonight, and i have never been more amazed, that was truly wonderful. okay, please enjoy!<br/>just as a reminder, none of this is even slightly based against the real people, just the SMP characters they portray. </p><p>cw: extensive mentions of alc*hol usage, there's nothing too major in this chapter, just angst. enjoy it, i suppose, lmao, i have been skiing for days because spring break and i am so tired my thoughts are jumbled, anyways enjoy it, and thank you so much for all the hits and kudos, it means the whole world!<br/>&lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>ACT I: The Deceit of Achilles</p><p>-TECHNOBLADE-</p><hr/><p>Thinking never got a dead man anywhere, you know? Dead people stay in their graves, trying to keep in good graces with whoever is the ruling power over their soul. They have no need for hymns, or symphonies, or battles… and I can see the luxury it presents, but it was not a luxury I cared to attain, quite possibly for once in my life. I was fine with the luxury of death evading me, and to be honest, I preferred playing executioner, judge and jury. It made sense when things were controlled by nothing but survival, not one man’s petty authority governed by the power he exercises through what is in his wallet. </p><p>I remember when, me and my brothers were children, our father used to tell us a bedtime story about a painter who lived by the woods. He never said her name, he’d told us she’d long forgotten it herself by the time they found her body, but whether that was the truth, or he just wanted to be more mysterious, is beyond me, but Wilbur, of course, disagreed with this heavily, and said that the narrative was confusing without names, so her gave her ‘Emilia’ as a stand-in. This was later heavily debated by Tommy, but for me, her name would always be Emilia, and I would always remember when my twin blurted it out when Phil told us the story in our sixth winter. He never decided on a name for our nymph, saying she wasn’t of this world, so our names wouldn’t be worthy of her. Which made sense, to both of us as seven-year-olds, and adults, so Phil didn’t argue and it has not brought up since.</p><p>This painter, Emilia, if you will, was known for her portraits, and her work graced the halls of royalty. But… like every artist does, she had her muse, and her muse was a nymph. A nymph who resided over an old willow who stood taller than Eret’s tower in its day, looming over the meadow it stood in, and every day, Emilia would go to this tree just to be with this lady of the meadow, and this nymph, loved her, and our painter adored her back. </p><p>But when our lady Emilia chose to forget just where she received inspiration from, and her ego began to corrupt her heart, this nymph was forced to sever ties, and take away what had been given, leaving her lover, and departing from her tree and the meadow. Because of this, Emilia could no longer remain as an artist, and fell from grace, going mad as she tried to paint the nymph who she was still in love with, until she eventually died. It was rumored she perished due to a broken heart, and a decimated soul, about halfway through the attempt of recreating her lover’s eyes, or at least that is what it appeared to to be by those who found her corpse.</p><p> </p><p>But, I’d been watching my brothers… think and think themselves into their graves these past few days… and there was absolutely nothing amusing about it. In all truth, it was like watching the painter from our Dad’s bedtime story slowly lose it while she tried her best as sort of a last-ditch effort, to capture the curves of the lover who had abandoned her due to her greed, but worse. Worse because… because the girl from the story was just that. A girl from a story with no consequences on my life, but my brothers were a different story completely. </p><p>But, when the young lady could not, as both her memory and skill, failed her because her muse was forced to take it away…her sanity trickled away and she was left with nothing. Not a person. Not a cause that could redeem horrific actions. Oh no, she had nothing. Not a single thing, and if my brothers kept at it in the way it was going, they would soon meet the fate of our painter, reduced to nothing but a slow, degenerative spiral that just seems to repeat, like one of Tommy’s discs that got scratched from years and years of play, and the words Wilbur would mumble as he aimlessly wanders the depths of Pogtopia, mind drifted somewhere where the world is already burning.</p><p> </p><p>In turn, as most tales go, the three of us became so addicted to keeping ourselves as similar to the nymph of the story as we could, ‘the morally valid’ character that all of us desperately wish to become. My brothers have barely even realized when they themselves had become the painter, the morally discarded. They have yet to really realize that they, too, are walking themselves to their own deaths just like our beautiful Emilia did in the story.</p><p>Let me state this so it makes as much sense as possible to someone who isn’t using my brain to think, okay? Having my brothers with me is something I would compare to being friends with starlight, no matter the context, for that is what they were, and will continue to be, no matter the shit they drag me through, I can’t see that changing unless something truly horrible occurs, which… was not in our power to determine. It probably never would be, as the fates do as they please, regardless of what we have established in our lives, we are just subject to the actions of others, forced to act as we ourselves see fit. </p><p>It hurts knowing their mistakes in their full extent. Knowing full well that I cannot save them from themselves, no matter my actions, as time will take us in the way it so deems necessary. In all the honesty that lies in my heart, I do not know how to track back what exactly kicked off Wilbur’s spiral into a lingering madness, the shredded remnants of his sanity corroding away somewhere I could not get to him, into nothing but cigarette ash in front of me. The urge to both protect and destroy sitting atop his shoulder, conversing and arguing with each other like an angel and the devil. </p><p>But I know something happened. I am not stupid, and even though I am not a intrusively loud individual, my silence mostly used for the reclusive purpose of observation on others’ behalves. Maybe it was a gradual accumulation of events, or maybe, he had just reached the end of his tether, and finally... <em> snapped </em>. But whatever it was, he was far too gone for anybody to talk him out of what he’s planned. I know. I’ve tried. I tried in the kitchen early this morning. I did so as diplomatically as possible, and he chose not to speak, choosing, instead, to ignore me.  </p><p>There’s a reason why I stuck with blood and bile scraped against a blade, instead of the laisse faire irritation of politics, which has given me not much dedication to being extensively diplomatic if I didn’t have too. I let him go. He wasn’t a child. I didn’t have to baby him anymore, two minutes isn’t anything in the spance of the universe, he wasn’t some scared nine year old kid anymore. He could handle himself, just like we all could. We’d learned that lesson, at least, from our father.</p><p>I do not know how to approach Tommy. Not really, and definitely not anymore. He is a shadow of the boy who would run up to me and take my glasses, and paint tiny rosebuds upon the back of Wilbur’s guitar. The young man he is now, is something new, and rough, like a bullet that refuses to budge from a rifle. </p><p>Tommy excels in the discordant nursery rhymes of a painfully failed childhood, wrought in shouting, forced diplomacy, chaos and war torn havoc, held in flame and misery. The adults around him… they have allowed it to happen, and he gets a front row seat as his older brother, the man who raised him from the time he was seven, become just another authority figure who is beginning to fail him, and watch as he completely crumbles in front of him. </p><p>Somewhere along the line, that kid, had learned that hopes and childish dreams won’t bring someone back to life, so why he keeps trying to piece Wilbur back together like a jigsaw puzzle with a tidy two dozen pieces missing, is just… useless, at this point. I don’t know why he does it, in all honesty, but I know it is the bits of him that still hold a shred of childish hope. A hope that he can get his brother back before the unspeakable occurs at, what he will believe, is his hand, because he has picked up more from Wilbur, than he will ever admit to. </p><p>In all truth, I would rather have them in one piece, then help them get their stupid government back, but I hold my tongue, and I don’t bite back. Wilbur had already crumbled, and was trying to halfheartedly piece himself back together without much dedication, not even noticing or caring that he was doing it completely wrong. And Tommy? Tommy was trying to help without having him notice, while keeping his own self together, while monitoring Tubbo, and trying to make sure Niki is okay. Not even sleep is where he can find rest, another fucking habit he’s inherited from us, this time from me. </p><p>But the list goes on. He bites at his lip, now. I’ve even watched him go without breathing and take the same, stuttering gasp of air at the exact same time of his brother. The both of them silently looked up from what the were doing, and met each other’s eyes in a sort of unspoken horror, before Tommy excused himself from the table, and we didn’t see him until evening. In his effort of trying to protect us, because I don’t think we’ve done as good a job at protecting him then we should have, he himself is decaying. Like a rose left in the sun, he too, inevitably, will join his brother and become ash, and I will be the last pawn standing, until I return to the flames that run through our veins, and join my brothers in the valley of ashes.</p><p>It is hard for the sea to fight against fire, it will scorch even it’s surface, and it will even eat away at the air around it, until nothing wanted to go near it. Our father had said more times than I could count that Wilbur was a pyre of flame and magma. He was proud of his ability to be regal and prideful in on moment, and merciless and vengeful the next. And like Wilbur, he had compared Tommy to the sea, a comparison I knew was encouraged by his eyes, which were opals of stunning iridescent silver, and used to reflect the mood of the sea when we still resided by the sea side, but it was still accurate.</p><p> They were hard to manage, that’s true, but name one person who you think, besides yourself, you could spend every hour of the day with without wanting to throttle of them. It’s just how things go sometimes. But caretaking the two tropical storms that were my brothers? Shocking. Overwhelming, even. Even the youngest, Tommy, reminded our father of an angry, grey sea, taking pride in drowning sailors and tearing through whole civilizations, as he is just a roaring hurricane, really, ready to snap and rip trees from a beach. But there were days where he was also calm. And considerate and funny enough to make you lose your breath, when he wanted to be, when he allowed himself to be, is the better description, I believe.</p><p> But no matter how close they can be, is hard for the sea to fight against fire, will scorch even it’s surface, if given the chance, and it will even eat away at the air around it, until nothing wanted to go near it. Our father had said more times than I could count, that Wilbur was a pyre of flame, molten hot magma, and the aftershock of explosives. He was proud, and regal, in one moment, and merciless and vengeful the next. And like Wilbur, he had compared Tommy to the sea until all of the possible metaphors had been long used twice. </p><p>Which is a comparison I knew was encouraged by his eyes, which were opals of stunning iridescent silver, remarkable and stunning, and they seemed to reflect the mood of the sea when we still resided by the sea side and had an ocean we had to worry about. Then there’s me, and I was always compared to storm clouds, the real scary ones you get during tornadoes. Three peas in a pod, I suppose. We have three matching metaphors of impending disaster that is shared between all of us that has been told to us, in turn, since childhood, so at least then we know full well we’re related.</p><p>I huff, pushing silently away from the table and walk through the kitchen, seeking to delve into the darkness of Pogtopia, to clear my head of nostalgia, because now, even though it used to be calming, is just sad, and feels like a reality that is just out of my reach. Ever-visible, but not something that seems like it was even real anymore, and could have been just a story, the prologue to doomsday, if you will.</p><p>The ravine of Pogtopia Proper is silent, nearing evening, as this time of day is generally pretty quiet around here, and because both of my brothers had gone out. Tommy up to the surface for, in Wilbur’s newly established crude tone that made me want to slap him, ‘exposure therapy, so the kid doesn’t go and fucking lose it and join the madhouse’, which was a tad hypocritical, if you ask me. Wilbur had gone somewhere he refused to disclose, so I didn’t ask again, even though, yet again, the attitude he toted around made me want to yell at him to remember his fucking manners, I held myself still, and watched as he ascends the stairs, and vanishes moments later behind the stone, without a word. </p><p>Due to their absence, Pogtopia hums in a dead-eyed emptiness, that I’m not sure if I prefer over the usual hum of occupation, or not. The air is heavy in the scent of lingering smoke although the one who created it is nowhere to be found, and the dull scent of rain from outside. It’s nice. The steady trickle of water into a pool deep in the cavern’s depths, the rather unfortunate shrieking of bats and silverfish echoing off the stone, and the gentle hum living underground seems to have, like the Earth’s heartbeat. It’s magnified due to the rain today, which is a stunning discovery, and the entire atmosphere feels to me like a breath of oxygen after a long extent of time submerged under water and the rays of new sunlight in the morning. </p><p>Pogtopia was not the prettiest thing in the world, never has been, despite Wilbur’s maddening attempts and apparent ‘art days’ he’d supervise so the boys could just paint directly onto the cave walls, for hours and hours on end when they were little, and back when Fundy couldn’t pronounce <em> ‘uncle’ </em>all that well for a good seven years,  so he just made up gibberish and shoved me and Tommy’s name’s in afterwards, as sort of the delicate flourish after the cacophony, if you will. Even when Wilbur finally caved and taught the kid the correct pronunciation, Fundy had no idea what the difference between the term aunt and uncle was, since it’s basically the same thing, so, for a while there, we were Aunt Techno and Auntie Tommy.</p><p>But, regardless of her appearance, she protected us. Kept us safe from the dangers above, even though we’d maybe, just maybe, accidentally let one of the biggest threats in, though I wasn’t quite sure it would develop how I planned, but… never trust a book by his cover. </p><p>I traverse the bridge leading to the staircase, humming a low melody under my breath, eyes flashing up to make sure I catch the inlet, one hand dragging along the banister, eyes thoughtfully looking up into the darkness of the supposed ‘ceiling’, that we had no proof actually existed, for it was just a void of darkness, and sometimes, at night, the darkness would swirl around and create things that… I knew for certain definitely wasn’t there, but when you’re trying to sleep, anything’s possible, y’know? So who am I to judge the random shadow creatures? They’re just trying to say hi. Nothing wrong with that.</p><p>Reaching the landing of our small foyer, I notice two things. The first being that the smell of rain is like being born again, and spills from every inch of the world, the thunder and lightning in the distance making the hair on my arms stand straight up. The second being, that there was a girl passed out in our foyer underneath one of Tommy’s chests. She’s blonde, hair falling against her back in clumps, dampening the rosey pink fabric and dark green cloak she has draped precariously around her shoulders. She’s breathing, thank god, as it would be incredibly fucking awkward, what with dealing with a dead body in a downpour. </p><p>The girl asleep in our foyer seems strong, even from the landing, as if she’d weathered quite a few battles in her time, and regardless of her pink ballgown, or even the makeup that has blended together slightly upon her face, a crown discarded next to her, as if she’d thrown it off angrily before dozing off, she still looks like she could snap Wilbur in half with her index finger and not even flinch. A sword lies cradled in her hand, and it is a blade that seems to have been carved from the very spirit of spring.</p><p>It takes longer than I care to admit for me to put it together that this is Wilbur’s friend, Niki, but when it does, I soften, more inclined to allow a friend to remain asleep in our foyer than some random girl. I was a bit taken aback at the dress and crown, as I know Niki is not one for bling, and is rarely seen without either something on that smells like flour, or gunpowder, but it was still nice to see her, regardless. </p><p>Her sword was old, I knew that for certain, but it yet breathed in life, and seemed to have a existence of it’s own to pursue, separate from Niki’s. The blade was called <em> Frühling </em>, meaning Spring, and it had been Niki’s for as long as I could remember, having been passed down from the ruling warrior of her clan, until she was the last who remained. And now, she is in a ball in our foyer, clutching the thing close to her as she sleeps in a pink ballgown, with a sword in her gloved hand hewn from the End itself. </p><p>When it was in the hand of her foremother, both the warrior and the blade was given the task of felling the Ender-dragon in the beginning, a feat that was achieved by her seven-times great grandmother, who was a woman tasked in defending a nation to the South that no longer exists, and has long since decayed. But Niki has persevered in the sombered efforts of preserving L’Manberg, and in turn, began to surrender the City of Marie, which now remains as nothing but a ruin. Our Lady Niki fights for the throne and black-stone hewn walls of L’Manberg, with the same fury that her grandmother cut the Ender-dragon from the sky, with the same blade that glints at her side. </p><p>We were all children holding onto the legacies of our parents. Niki’s was the life of a warrior, and the forgotten mantle of Queen, that she had let rest for the title of friend, one of the best bakers in the entire county of L’Manberg, and quite literally one of the scariest ladies in the entirety of L’Manberg, charged with the job of protecting the governing family of the country. Wilbur’s was the legacy he created on his own; the legacy of a president, of a founding father, along with my brother, and yet he also was to be remembered as the legacy of a father, and friend to those who still remained. He was to be remembered by Fundy, and Tommy, and Tubbo, as a great man, but he had raised those three boys. They would tell his story swindled by their love for him, not the dead, cold truth, of how he began to lose his mind once he lost power.</p><p>My own was one who’d been long warped and twisted, as I no longer served the simple souls of man, but those who had been trapped in the sands of the nether, and the Piglin Tribe who had lost one of their own to the experiments that had given me the Souls that whisper in the depths of my mind, and now offered me free passage whenever I needed through wherever route I care to take in the depths of hell, which seems, even though I appreciate it, like a shitty trade off. I nod to the child’s mother still, knowing that that very well could have been my own father, watching a man who did not belong, live in the body of his son/ </p><p>Our legacies define us, control us, and pursue us, sometimes relentlessly, but they will still forever linger. I will never not hate politicans, nor will cease how much I despise the pain L’Manberg was bringing to my brothers, and how everything could be fixed, if it was gone. Two birds with one stone; singlehandedly poach out the disease before it can corrupt their minds to attachments instead of their own even further, and yet also prod along the destruction of a nation that was born in the hasty excitement of boyish glee and the serendipity of finally finding somewhere peaceful, even if that peace was just crafty deception, and would not last for even another measure, and it would burn once the shock wave hit. </p><p>I do not know why that petulant child of a nation had to be formed in order for them to be fully happy. Nor why Wilbur couldn’t have just been content with how the world was when his son was still a toddler, and how he’d pull at his father’s trousers, babbling quite elequently, it seemed to me, to his father in completely fluent Foxish, until my brother finally got the message somewhat chaotically and picked him up. </p><p>Both of them sort of having a one-way conversation which each other, as Wilbur had to bullshit his way through most of their conversations with the help of charades due to the language barrier between them. He gradually beginning to understand small little snippets of his son’s quiet chirps and whimpers, until it just became second nature for them both. Even then, it was a happy day when Fundy, all of a sudden, and out of nowhere, spoke his first full sentence to his grandfather. But, see, even that memory, is enough to floor me in nostalgic happiness, which is saying a fucking ton, but then, man of the hour, my <em> brother </em>,  couldn’t have just been happy with it. He had to have more. In a way he was like a tyrant of his own life, always having to have more, regardless of how much he had in front of him, and how much the things that he had were genuinely lovely. My brother had a chance to touch the clouds, and yet it will never be enough for him because he’s far too set to the stars to see what’s happening in front of him. </p><p>But,  I have to remember Niki. Niki’s here, now. There’s no reason to drag her into your shitty emotional pile of bullshit. She’s always been better at people than I have, than all of us have, really. It’s not like we learned our socialization skills from our father or from our mother, they were warriors, adults who had still not yet had their own taste at a childhood, who did not know how to caretake anything but a sword, and especially not the caretaking and curating the upbringing of two twin boys and a baby brother, but Dad did his most with what he had, as did Mom when she was still alive, so really, I am just complaining about the past. Which, at the end of the day, gets us nowhere but stuck somewhere undesirably familiar and irritably nostalgic.</p><p>“Technoblade, you have been staring at me for quite a long time, is there something you have to say about the dress?” I’ll be honest, I have several hundred good things to say about the dress, most of which she would probably think to be too sappy and smack me upside the head, which is completely deserved. And, for most of that time, I was off in a daze thinking not about her dress, but about the lore of a warrior’s blade, trying to remember a sword’s name and creed, and talking in my head about my brothers, and had not noticed her wake up. </p><p>As she speaks, her words feel overpowering, although they are said quietly, and calmly, and said with command, and it feels like it would be a sin to lie to the Lady of Spring. And so, as I gather thoughts that are not correlated to sword lore or the chronicles of my skewed family dynamic that even me, someone who has caused a significant amount of discretion in said dynamic, have yet to comprehend.  I make a mental note to never lie to Wilbur’s scary friend in the pretty dress and terrifying sword, who could probably kick a god’s ass in heels with her eyes closed. </p><p>“No, I have nothing to say, my lady. As you said, it has been a while, and seeing you dressed for such an event startled me. My apologies.” I say, speaking as if I am talking to a goddess herself, as you know what, she very well appeared like one to me in this moment, her sudden arrival reinforcing that theory, and my brain immediately correlates her to Iris, goddess of the rainbow, but for all the poetic speak I am so accustomed too, I don’t think I can highlight why exactly. Sometimes people just… remind you of something, maybe it’s an experience, or a story you heard as a child, or even a color, but in her case, it’s the Grecian goddess of the rainbow, and that is Lady Iris. </p><p>Niki is demure and quiet, influenced by both light and the sea, doing her most to make her own path, and yet… there was always something that would be out of reach for her. And maybe it hasn’t happened yet, but Niki was destined to forever be chasing the existence of someone or something that had been taken from her, and I knew, through the whispers of the Nether Souls, they are literally Wikipedia but harder to deal with, that it would break her mind, and one day… she would not be just <em> ‘our friend Niki </em>’ who bakes and is very admirably scary with her named sword, she’d step into the role of the Lost Matron of Isle Marie, and she would wield a temper against the world to match both her blade and legacy. Nobody’s fate is bad, or good, but for Niki… it feels like a tragedy, and that, around here for some cursed fucking reason, has become the normative, and that alone, is enough of a reason, in my eyes, to throw the entire country away. </p><p>“No apology is needed, also drop the niceties, Techno, please. We’ve known each other since childhood, call me Niki.. ‘My lady’, although formal, is no longer a title that I care to claim. It was very nice though, thank you.” Her voice is a like summer stardust and I laugh, nodding and bringing my hand around to my neck, trying to discreetly knead out my fucking neck cramp that had gradually gotten worse thanks to this whole ‘sleeping on a whole ass stone floor’, business. It wouldn’t come in handy in a fight, that’s for sure, so the sooner it went away, the better, in my eyes. I did not need to be beating the shit out of some skeleton and have my neck crick up halfway through, I would never speak to another living person again after that, I don’t think.</p><p>“On another note, you look magnificent. It’s wonderful to see you, truly. I’ve missed you quite a lot.” I say clearing my throat and offer her my hand, pulling her up off the floor. She brushes of her skirt and cracks her neck, throwing aside a rhinestone hairclip I recognize as Eret’s. She scowls at the thing as it sits, shamefully banished on the floor for barely long enough for it to even register, her eyes glowing in battle ravaged fury, as if a silly hairclip on a dirt foyer floor was a force of nature of some kind</p><p>Or if it was something to destroy simply because of the thing’s owner’s betrayal… a betrayal that, evidently, still burns her skin like an ember flying from a fireplace, and stings like the bitter slash of a severing blade. <em> The Betrayal of Eret </em>… it was a song I’d long heard sung in two parts harmony, echoing each other’s distaste, but never had I heard it arranged for a trio, but hatred is such an easy song to sing, and it was one I had contributed too, time and time again when my brothers would rant about it when tensions ran high of the past and stars still hung themselves in the dapple of night. </p><p>“Of course you did, Tech! We got away with a <em> lot </em>together, and, granted, most of that was torturing Will as politely as possible, which… looking back on it, wasn’t too polite, I don’t think.” She says, grinning as she leans back onto one of the chests, proceeding to irritably pull her hair out from the intricate up-do she’d arrived with, the rain probably not making it easy on her, and a scowl of frustration crosses over her face as she pulls out a knot of hair that had wrapped itself around one of the small, silver flower clips, throwing the thing against the top of the chest, and dropping her scowl as she looks up at me with a smile as she shakes out her hair, taking a breath in relief.</p><p>
  <em> She did not chose this on her own accord. Influence. Influence. She was persuaded. Persuasion. Can we trust her? Is she going to hurt your family? Think this over clearly, and do not make mistakes. Mistakes could cause trouble. Could make you get in trouble. Don’t get in trouble. Think this through. Watch every angle. Fighting is fine, you excel at it, but learning how to navigate life is harder. You know this. </em>
</p><p>I suppose that s may have come to Pogtopia appearing like a princess or goddess, and to me and my brothers, she very well was, but she was a goddess with revenge and misery it was clear she was just counting the days to inflict, burning at the sound of her voice, the chaos that has yet to be made, lashing out each time she rips a hairclip from her hair and drops it, crudely, to the chest below. </p><p>
  <em> There are times, Techno, where reading others is too much for one person to attempt. You haven’t seen her, in how long now? Obviously she’d be different, are you bothered by that? She fought with your brothers, of course she has changed from the girl you know. Nobody you knew, including yourself, is the same. It is just the consequence of existing here. </em>
</p><p>“No. No, it was not. We were both very impolite children, I think. But, then again, isn’t our fault he’s gullible.” She speaks like a Spring breeze and I laugh, grinning probably incredibly stupidly, as I stick my tongue out, just barely, through my teeth. It was a smile I’d repressed for about fifteen years, as it looked completely ridiculous on the mug of a warrior, but since it’s a Niki, and at this point, she’s family, I ignore it. It’s not like it’ll kill me. I will live.</p><p><em> Of course you will. You’re Technoblade. Technoblade never dies, boy. Remember that. </em> <b> <em>I need you all to shut up, now, please. I’m trying to talk to my friend, Niki, right now. Would you please shut up? </em> </b>Unsurprisingly, they do not let me alone, laughing at my pleas and sniggering out remarks that sting from the sharp nip of honesty.</p><p>“True. This is true.” She says, snapping me out of it again as we proceed to both break down into laughter and grinn at each other, myself snorting very aggressively, which simply devolves the situation, and before we know it Pogtopia Proper’s foyer is filled with giddy, slightly aggressive laughter. Suddenly, I’m knocked off my feet, stumbling backwards as she hugs me, my smile softening and I hug her, somewhat awkwardly, as I had completely forgotten that I am about a good foot and a half taller than her, I wasn’t the easiest soul to hug, but it’s Niki. Allowances will be made. </p><p>“We are both ridiculous, do you know that?” She says, looking up at me and not being able to remain serious for a single second after that and just sort of threads her hands through her hair as she sniggers, grinning.</p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, I know we are.” I say quietly, the smell of rain is everywhere, and thunder booms from outside, the flashing light and crackle of lightning shining through the small gap in the plywood. Suddenly, I’m incredibly grateful I am inside. </p><p>The monsoon we’d been gifted with today was as furious as a funeral pyre, and it seemed to me like this was sort of a… final hurrah, exhaling the last breaths of spring before they are brought to die at the feet of winter, felled with the inevitable frost and bite of ice, and rotting away as the world falls into a dappled white polaroid. Whether those incoming snowy nights would be blessed in silence, or would settle into the normal, yet a tad bit crazed and looming, pent up aggression that seemed to lurk around every corner, waiting to be uncovered and have its time in the spotlight, was a mystery. The moment that the theatre of winter inevitably falls upon us at the close of October, is the moment the lingering peace of the moment that has been clung too, that we are no longer in, crumbles. </p><p>“Would you like to come inside, it’s a bit too cold out here, we’ll both catch cold, or something equally terrible.” I say cracking my neck and sighing, resisting an urge to idly rub at my temples, my nearly-permanent headache coming back with a vicious side to it that felt like some kind of swindled revenge against me personally. For some reason. Maybe the crowd upstairs tired not just me out, but my own brain. It was definitely a possibility. </p><p>“Hanging on the assumption that you trust me, yes. But if you do not, I understand and will remain here.” Her tone is odd. It isn’t that it doesn’t lack conviction, I can see it in her eyes that she very evidently does, she just seems tired, as if she simply does not have the energy to run from something else, but it wasn’t like she needed to run from me. Not now, at least. I hold no ill intentions or anything of that sort against her, at all. I’d grown up with her, really, we both did, and Will may be wading in a slowly rising sea of insanity, but he wouldn’t betray Niki, and I knew that neither would she.</p><p>“Niki, I don’t think you’re a traitor. You wouldn’t be alive right now if I had, trust me. But, even using just a scrap of logic, it just isn’t logical for you to be working with them. You’re too smart to want to associate with Schlatt and his gaggle of blithering idiots on purpose, especially since they imprisoned you to hold power over my brother  and keep you out of commission because you’re a threat. You played the role of an unspoken bargaining chip. They would not have done that if you were on their side, would they, Niki?” I say, taking a breath and clearing my throat, lifting my gaze to meet hers as I chuckle, lightly, to myself. The situation wasn’t funny, not in the least. </p><p>But there was something amusing about how all of those affected by the aftermath of the dreaded Eret situation behaved around the word ‘betrayal’, and you don’t even want to know how severe they react whenever the possibility of a traitor is brought up out of the blue. It’s like they go into war mode, which is fair, but when you really think about it, everyone is in this for some selfish, obscure reason. Those we deem traitors just act on their own beliefs, which feel bitter and bite at one’s mind once they oppose someone else’s own way of life. It was understandable, what had been done. Sometimes I thought the whole thing… <em> reasonable </em>. If someone does something I do not believe in, why would I keep my alliance? It just doesn’t make sense. Call me what you will, but I will not fight for tyrants. I came for rebellion and so I could do what was right, not to conform to a structure of failure. I will not take down one tyrant in order for another to gain power, and I do not care who that person is. I bite my tongue, stifling my quiet laughter, and turn my attention back to Niki, who sighs, lifting her eyes from the ground to meet mine.</p><p>“No, no you’re correct. They would not.” She blinks, and taps her fingers together, as if considering saying something she chooses not to vocalize, and banishes away, pretending she did not even think about something that probably, by her current expression, would have been regretted in nightly hindsight. How nice would it be, being able to banish thoughts away. That was a luxury I did not have. Things I think, especially the bad ones, consume me. Turn me mean and ill spirited, without much thought needed on my end, because as long as I am quiet enough for <em> them </em> to drive me crazy with unhinged midnight thoughts, it is good enough for <em> them </em>.</p><p>“See? I trust you, I am confident of my own judgement, and believe you when you say that you are here for the reasons you say you are. But… I will hold you to your word, and just so you are aware, if that trust is violated, for any reasons whatsoever, I will not hesitate to take one of your lives in order to protect my family, are we clear?” I whisper, the words laced in molten scorn and heated rage, tempting fate, and making sure it knows who runs the show, for what I say, is not merely words. It is a promise. Taking one of Niki’s lives would be hard, yes, I probably wouldn’t be spoken too by Wilbur or Tommy, but… priorities. Would I rather they sulk and act like immature fools because I killed a potential threat, or be forced to visit their graves because our location got leaked? I’m sure you can figure out which option makes the most sense, and which option I woud prefer, and I am sure that she does, as well. </p><p>“Crystal.” She whispers back, meeting my eyes, and I nod, smiling lightly, and laughing, more light hearted this time, as the threats of slitting her throat, vanish into the background, as if they had never even been made to begin with. </p><p>“Fantastic, let’s go on in, then. It is so fucking freezing, and not one of us has a cape, do you want tea? God, we need to insulate this somehow, I’ll set Tommy on it later. Putting him on random mundane tasks that I do not want to do is always enjoyable. By the way, are you going to leave your hair barrettes in here, or…” I ask, cracking my knuckles and looking, somewhat nervously, at the stupid little golden hair barrettes Niki had removed from her hair rather angrily, leaving me completely unsure as of why she glares at them as if barrettes had slaughtered an entire town, and she was out seeking revenge for a family member.</p><p>“They stay in here so they can rust for all I care, I didn’t like them at all when Eret put them in, and I don’t want anything to do with them now.” She says, sighing and kicking one into the ground as if it was Eret, themself. People here and their attachment to things will never cease to amaze me. These clips aren’t Eret the person, right? But they’re getting the anger based on Eret’s previous actions taken out on them by Niki? How does that make any sense? The human brain is weird, thank end for whatever experiment messed me up, I guess, because at least I value ideas over things that, in the larger perspective of things, do not matter. Hair barrettes do not matter, neither do discs, or explosives, and yet they are cared about more often than those around us. Things are temporary, family is forever, is a saying that nobody seems to remember exists unless it conveniences them. </p><p> “Understandable. After you, then.” We cross the threshold, stepping  into Pogtopia, blue eyes twinkling in the light of the lanterns, hand dropping from her own as she rushes forward, cursing and hiking up her skirt. She looks over Pogtopia from our ledge-balcony thing, turning back to look at me, and giggling, reminding me of back when we were kids, playing in the ocean together. Her laugh sounds like the song of a bird, and the gentle lick of flame, and it is something I didn’t realize I’ve missed.</p><p>“Welcome to Pogtopia Proper, Niki. Please make sure you watch your step. The flooring boards are uneven everywhere.” I say, coming up from behind her and setting my hand down on her shoulder, meeting her eyes and smiling, chuckling as I join her in looking out into Pogtopia. It was truly a place of beauty, but after living in a cave for the past month the beauty felt like I was seeing it anew, as if the arrival of the Lady of Spring, had done more than the rain outside could ever manage, and it wasn’t even just a experencial thing, it is a human, tactical <em> being </em>, and the air seemed… I don’t know, alive when it touched her. </p><p>Peace and the hope that the return of spring wasn’t just something in the past, something for Tommy to cradle in his arms at night, and it be pulled from him when he arose, it’s now dancing over the walls and cascading down the gentle, underground current of the creek that runs through our ravine, reflecting in the light of her eyes and for maybe, just maybe, we have a chance to at reclaiming those we’ve lost. Even if that chance was stupid, and I should have banished it away, I still can’t help but cling to it.</p><p>We sit together, quietly, in an illuminated little corner of the ravine, clutching the mugs I’d filled with sweetened chamomile tea as if they were a life line, a defense from the cold, icy air encouraged by the rainstorm outside, and biting at our clothes and skin, even if we are a significant hundred feet underground. Maybe sitting near the foyer staircase was a bad idea, and after I finished my tea I’d set the fire, but for now, I tap my finger against the teacup, eyes lifting to watch Niki. She’s off thinking somewhere, eyes thoughtful, and smile small, but emotions arranged in a nice little line, which was refreshing, and hung off my shoulder in relief. </p><p>It had been a while since I had been around someone I didn’t have to tread around. Someone who smiles while their eyes go unfocused instead of tremoring as a fearful scowl claims waste across their face, wreaking havoc upon his person and destroying eyes that were once the color of sunlight against the hills. But now, looking at Niki, watching her as she seems harmlessly enraptured in her chamomile and mind that seemed to be leagues away, to even care about the scent of cigarette smoke, or to even notice the quiet signs that we were idling in the room where someone’s mind had been plagued and thoroughly abandoned. </p><p>It was a breath of fresh air, and for once, I do not fight it, for the light I have found myself in after months of darting through the darkness, feels like paradise. A paradise that has probably sprung out of denial, as the source of its creation was long gone, but it was a paradise, that, for the first time in months, felt, really, truly <em> real </em>. Or maybe it was Niki. Some people are just like a light of their own, like stars. Drawing others toward them like moths to a flame, pulling them away from the trepidatious jaws of a lark, and offering them even just a moment of sanctuary, after the flourish of a near-death half measure of a work of music composed by the angel of death.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>We’ve both long washed our plates, wrapped up both of my brothers’ dinners to save for breakfast, and Niki had even made herself a little corner, and by the time 10:45pm finally rolls around. I was nervous about both of them to a point where it didn’t even feel like it was anxiety, anymore. It just felt like I was preparing for someone to stumble through the plywood door and tell me some shit news I’d have to repress for three years, until I have an epiphany and do something drastic, but jokes aside, and on the subject of repression, it was taking all my concentration to not get up and start pacing, and if I had to wait for another two minutes, I was going out to look for them. </p><p>My brothers could be lying dead in a ditch somewhere, for all I know. I know for dead certain Wilbur sure as shit isn’t stable. Tommy hasn’t yet comprehended how to keep himself composed around authority figures, hence the reason why he clings to them, in this case, my brother, and in extension, the reason why he follows Will anywhere and everywhere he can. It's not like I blame the kid for it, he grew up in war, he understands military strength and, to put it plainly, or at least, from what I believe from spending far too much time observing the both of them these past few days, for both constructive and entertaining reasons, he uses the tactics that were used while they were at war to protect himself from anything that gets thrown his way. But, that is just lazy storytelling and shoddy, unreliable narration, on my part, and does nothing for anybody. </p><p>You must have caught on to the gist of chapter in which where I get abducted, by now, but, regardless, because of what happened to me, the fear of that happening again stayed with our father for years afterwards. To a point where the question that would be asked for the duration of the time where I remained under my father’s roof, -<em> which would be a fact that would be constantly reinforced nearly every night Will and I went to sleep, our father popping his head into our bedroom to get a head count of his sons maybe ten times a night for three years, </em>- and would be asked, before he even though about the general wellbeing of my brothers.  </p><p>I was treated differently by my father afterwards. I was trained more ruthlessly than my twin by our father, and he,  fueled by fear and rage of losing a son, taught me how to protect myself, and made sure what happened when I was eight, was not something that would repeat itself. This sounds valiant enough, sure, but in the process of this, he began to forget how to love my brother to the extent he deserved, or that he, too, was just a scared child who needed a father. It wasn’t just friendly competition, either. We loved each other, and still do, but there was a kind of resentment there that we both just sort of… danced around, for years. And even now, we pretend that it isn’t there. That it’s not something that has to be addressed. And maybe that’s the way we resolve it, it’s not like our family is known for their words, the only exception to that rule would be Wilbur, for he has done things with ink and a quill that I could not even imagine with a blade. We are both shit at emotions, our father too, and are notorious for just letting things die because we do not know how to caretake them, or ourselves, for that matter. Wilbur got a plant once and everything was fine with it for about three months and then he overwatered it and cried about it for about a week. Which, was completely understandable, and I bought him a new one after he’d stopped sulking about it, but still. </p><p>Emotions were messy, and not to discredit anyone, trying to understand someone else’s on top of your own… is, in my family’s sort of mutually tone deaf case, a near-impossible feat to pull off and actually manage without it going wrong it some way or another. I’d watched my father and twin live through terror at my own expense, and I’ve watched grief take its toll on my family and wreak its own plights of havoc upon us. </p><p>And, mind you, these things never really leave those who’ve experienced it. Not really. Emotions aren’t like films, they don’t just end conveniently and leave the person alone to rest, they become a blight, an irritating little nag at the back of one’s mind, pulling someone further and further in until it just… consumes their very being, until whoever it is is just <em> stuck </em>, living in a permanent state of fear, grief and sorrow. I guess it takes us as humans far too long than it should be the case to try and grow our ways out of the concept of being afraid, or sad, as fear and sadness, because,  like muscle memory, these things become rooted in place. </p><p>Routines were created, emotions were ignored, and people pretended, and when Tommy was born, things started to shift. Our father… he decided it was time to heal on his own, and because of that, he did not raise our younger brother to the fullest extent that Tommy deserved. And it wasn't like we didn't pick up on it. It's not like we were stupid little kids. We were full aware of what was happening, even if Tommy was far too young for that, and at the end of the day, all that kid needed was someone to be proud of him, to show how much he was loved, instead of just being met with empty words and false love.</p><p>It was Wilbur who took on that job. Immediately. Without a moment’s hesitation, he became the thing closest to a father that that little boy had. He raised both his own son, the boy he caretakes, and his baby brother, on his own, and helped them become the men they are today, and although they have both said their childhoods were the best they could be under the circumstances, they were at war, and children shouldn't be exposed to war at the end of the day. </p><p>And Wilbur knew that, so maybe he's trying to make up for what happened, now, to protect the kids. His kids. His three boys. But… I don't know. I'm like our Dad. I'm not good with people, I barely even understand my own family, if I’m honest, and after more variables being introduced to the situation for both of them emotionally, anything regarding both Wilbur and Tommy was like trying to read a language that had long been lost to the pages of history. </p><p>A hand falls to my shoulder, and my brain immediately turns defensive, scanning the room for a threat, or maybe even a little cue to help me figure out what the hell was happening. My breathing becomes wild, eyes clearing enough so I have the mental space to be able to check for a wound, or bloodied scratch left by the edge of a blade owned by an attacker in the night, but I find nothing but bright blue eyes awashed in something that borders on fear, but stops on restlessness, right before reaching her blue irises, stopped by something unseen.</p><p>“Niki, what’s wrong? Has something happened?” I demand, rising to my feet, and trying my best to remember where the hell I put my sword down this afternoon, just in case it’s a fight. Because you never know, especially while living here, when the next fight’s going to be, and who it’s going to take.</p><p>“No, nothing’s happened. I’m perfectly fine. Something’s making noise up there, though, it woke me up from my nap. I think that means they’re back.” She says, and before I can even form a sentence to voice exactly why Niki had found the need to give me a heart attack a minute ago, I hear a faint clattering, as if someone had knocked into something loud and potentially very fragile, followed by a barely audible string of curse words, which, was, based upon an educated guess on my part, my idiot twin knocking something over, and our youngest brother admonishing him for it through strings of very loud expletives that are not befitting of how people should behave at literally midnight, but since neither of us sleep, I am not one to speak on that fact, but I am going to give them both a lecture about promises and trust and the whole<em> ‘you two assholes are supposed to come home when was agreed, and if something like this happens again, I will not hesitate to kill the both of you and bury your stupid bodies in a shallow grave off in a desert somewhere,’ </em>talk.</p><p>“Stay here. I’ll go see what’s going on, make sure those two aren’t killing each other, or some shit. I’m sure it’s them, I’d recognize the sound of Will being clumsy anywhere, I just need to…. Uh… <em> talk to them about the day, </em>y’know?” I say, rising from the table, apprehensively looking up towards the top foyer, not able to keep myself from flinching as anothing something falls and breaks, the sound met, seconds later, just like before, by a string of loud, brisk cursing. </p><p>“Yeah. I understand. I’ll wait here. Try not to kill them, please.” I sigh angrily, rubbing my eyes as she takes her seat. I wasn’t going to kill them, helping me bury their bodies in the middle of the night wouldn’t be fair to Niki, as she’d only gotten here six hours ago, and had literally just woken up from a nap. Dad had told me it wasn’t necessarily common decency to get people who aren’t family, involved in family matters, which I suppose this was. </p><p>In reality, I don’t care what those two do, not really. Wilbur is a fully grown adult with a child who once held a place of power, he doesn’t need me to baby him, and Tommy is extremely mature for his age, but he’s weathered. He’s like old parchment paper, now, but he rages like a hurricane interrupting a sunny day. But, none of this seemed to me like an excuse to come home six hours after they told me they were going to. While they were both wanted by their own government, might I add, which was just…  not a good choice on either of their parts, to be honest. It’s like stepping into the hydra’s den, unarmed. It’s suicide, really.</p><p>I ascend the stairs, turning around and wistfully looking back into our cavern, and remembering ascending the stairs of the home of our childhood when I was twelve after me and my twin brother had snuck out to listen to Will play guitar on the bluff near the sea and talk. Our muffled laughter sounding identical in pitch as we fail to ascend the stairs quietly, both of us whispering excitedly about the experience we’d just been privy to. Will resting his guitar on the stand at the foot of his bed, before he’d pulled the covers down, winked at me, and promised, under threat of our baby brother’s teddy, that we’d go there again as I grinned, yawned, and rolled over, facing the window and the moon that was slowly sinking in the sky as my brother’s snores filled our room. Even <em> They </em>had finally calmed to a gentle hum that seemed to echo in my mind, before my eyes fluttered shut, and I fall asleep to the thoughts of pretending Will’s snoring was, instead, the gentle lull of the ocean, and not what it really was, which was the thundering sound of a house collapsing. </p><p>I shake my head, and take a breath, pulling myself up the gentle twist of the steps. The melancholic nostalgia falls away from me almost immediately, as my eyes fall upon Tommy and Will at the top of the landing, and realize, just exactly why it took them six hours to get home. </p><p>Tommy’s eyes look unfamiliarly gaunt and severe, as he’s literally fucking carrying our brother through the landing. His usually-curly hair is clumped together by rain water, a nasty looking bruise is spattered across his left cheek and eye, and he looks tired enough to collapse, even though he is pretending that he is not, by quiet smiles, and drunken laughs. Tommy looks intense, eyes looking ahead, and although he plasters a smile across his face whenever Will whispers something that sounds, probably inherently stupid, I can tell he’s afraid of the whole situation, and I don’t blame him. This whole thing read even me the wrong way from the bottom of the staircase, I didn’t even know it was this until I got here, but… apparently, the usual suspect of nonsense had outdone himself, this time. </p><p>At least Tommy was nice enough to drag him home, even though the kid looks fucking terrified and unnerved as all shit, I suppose he’s just gotten very good at pretending he is not well enough for Will to not pick up on, which was… an achievement I had yet to master thanks to that idiot being my twin. Trying to hide emotions from that dude was like trying to keep the news of a bull galavanting around a tea shop quiet. It doesn’t work. It’s like we’re giving the forecast for weather sometimes, like ooh you’re feeling a bit anxious over there, want tea? It’s scuffed, I tell you. <em> Scuffed </em>. I suppose that’s the give and take of being a twin. We are very different, and have adapted ourselves to a point where we, somehow, barely, if even, fit the label ‘identical twins’, but I had plenty of pictures proving we were incase it was ever disputed, but… I would always be able to understand Will in ways I myself could not understand my own person. And that is perfectly fine with me, my mind hadn’t been mine in years, who cares if one more person gets to look in?</p><p>I don’t think Tommy needs to pretend, right now, however, because it has rapidly become a habit of his these past few weeks, I think it would do more harm in me telling him to quit the act, then just letting it happen. But, in all honesty, Will does not look like he’d even remember any of this in the morning, which is probably a good thing. That way he can’t remember he fact that he is, smiling stupidly, and, for the first time in years, legitimately giggling as Tommy grumbles silently and shifts Will’s weight around so he wasn’t, as much, falling from Tommy’s grip as before. </p><p>“What the hell happened to him?” I whisper, wordlessly ducking under Will’s other arm and taking up the slack, Tommy flinching away from Will’s attempt to braid his hair, which is met with a temperamental giggle as he sets the side of his head down on my shoulder and starts to stare ahead at a wall, as if the fucking silverfish are hosting some kind of unseen theatre performance. </p><p>“He went somewhere to get drunk. Said he didn’t want to be around here to get judged.” Tommy says, thoughtfully, his voice quiet, as if he didn’t want to disturb Wilbur. Who was, <em> still </em>, just staring at the wall. For some reason. Of course. Of course he didn’t want to be somewhere safe when he chose to do that, oh no, my brother had to be unalert, at night, of all things, and probably decently close to the fucking country that he got exiled and promptly blacklisted from ever returning to ever again. </p><p>Am I the only sibling capable of thoughts? I mean, Tommy’s intelligent, Wilbur’s just blinded by his own existence, while off thinking he’s a god for some reason I don’t yet understand, and therefore, going off on his destructive tendencies, which would be fine. I don’t mind if he drinks while in my company, and now I’d prefer it, to be honest. I’d prefer getting a bottle thrown at my head and screamed at, to watching my baby brother having to carry the man who raised him back by himself at midnight, while, -by the looks of his staring contest towards the wall that he is somehow still having-, he is extremely intoxicated and not capable of helping in case something went awry, which… very well could happen.</p><p>At least they’re both fucking safe and back at home and not too badly scratched up, I suppose. I can lecture Will about this once his head stops doing the conga and his migraine dissipates enough for him to speak, but for now, we needed to get him in bed, make sure he stays there, and then get Tommy fed and get them both asleep  so I can rest and rant to myself in peace and quiet. </p><p>“Did anything happen to him? Is he alright, or… just intoxicated and staring at the fucking wall?” Tommy follows Will’s eye contact and snorts, manages a grin as he shakes his head, and, rather unceremoniously baps Will on the nose with his hand. Our brother did not even register something has happened, which makes Tommy sigh, and shake his head, exhaustion suddenly setting into him. He looks so much older, years past sixteen, dark circles that lie painted under his eyes standing out like fluorescent orange at a white wedding. His signature careless slouch seeming as if he was about to collapse. I realize I don’t remember the last time he’s slept the whole night through, much less the last time he hasn’t gotten up at the crack of dawn in order to escape a rant or gloomy lecture by our brother. </p><p>“No. No, nothing happened. He’s easy to predict. I thought I got to all of his stash a week ago. Turns out I was wrong. I’ll look around for the rest of it tonight when he inevitably passes out. But, no. No, no problem. I got to him before it got too bad.” Tommy assures me, a quiet smile on his face as he looks from Will to the action of stepping down onto the first stair, a feat he manages extremely carefully, turning to Will the moment we’ve both ascended a little ways, as if making sure him taking a step wasn’t enough to upset him in some way, which, by the looks of how he has just been mumbling to Tommy about something, his voice kept at a volume that’s low enough that I cannot hear anything from him but the tail ends of slurred syllables. </p><p>Apparently, whatever it was he was whisper-ranting about, was loud enough for Tom to hear, who’s currently grinning and almost hysterically whispers something back to him, met with a gruff chuckle, as both of my brothers slide into matching, scarily mischievous, tiny, smiles, the only difference between them being the distant traces of Tommy’s far away, carefree smile ebbing at the greying tides that hold a whole ocean in the expanse of my brother’s bright blue eyes, meanwhile Will is just smiling like an idiot, eyes vapid and hold nothing but the bitter tang of the probable sea of whiskey he’d downed hours before.</p><p>“That’s a relief. Thank you, Tommy. That was very good of you.” I whisper, Tommy dragging his eyes away from Will, who’s still mumbling about something I cannot hear to shrug in my direction, simultaneously slapping Will’s hand away from untying his bandana, and frowning at him, directing his attention to me with a yawn. </p><p>“It’s no problem. He’s my brother. Helping him isn’t any sweat off my back, y’know? It’s just a common decency, even if he was a bitch to get home. By the way, I am sorry at how late we are. I really, really tried to make the curfew, we just got held up because Will kept refusing to fucking walk and generally making my life joyously miserable for about seven hours, because he had to know every single plant’s latin name we passed or he’d start crying and would have to sit down until he remembered it.  Stop messing with that, Will, I will punt you down these stairs, so help me god.” Tommy snarks, flinching away from Will, and scowling him at, shaking his head and exhaling tiredly, watching as Will just laughs into my shoulder hysterically, sounding like a dying animal, and not in fact a literal high profile wanted man in a trench coat. But then again, he’d, for some reason I couldn’t understand, gotten himself attached to trying to untie Tommy’s bandana just to mess with him, so… I guess he’s just <em> that way.  </em></p><p>“Do you know how many fucking plants there are from here to that big old maple tree that got struck by lightning a few years ago, Technoblade? Too many. Far too fucking many, that’s what. How does this idiot even know all of those? Did he not have friends as a child? I want to burn that entire forest down after that so I never have to look at another fern again. Did you know those stupid things are called <em> tracheophytas </em>? That sounds like a fucking throat disease. I hate botany. I hate plants.” Tommy scoffs, rolling his eyes and shifting Will’s arm around his neck, yawning again and gripping the banister with his other hand. He completely ignores whatever the hell Will’s whispering about, and since he’s saying it to the floor, I don’t really think it concerns us, and I don’t have to lend the energy to answer whatever the hell kind of ramblings he’s off about, because, thank god, he was being far too quiet for me to even be able to hear any of it, anyway.</p><p>“You are not wrong, that does very much sound like a throat disease.” I remark, nodding at him and yawning, something I’ll blame on Tommy. I stabilize myself, throwing out my arm, and gripping the banister, doing my most not to fall down the crudely-cut stairs that absolutely were not at all up to code, because that would be embarrassing, and I do not need to have my pride bruised like that, not at this hour. Not at this moment, either, I think even my idiotically intoxicated twin would even remember that occurrence, and even if he didn’t, Tommy would make sure the memory resurfaced. Right now, however, I just wanted to get this current moment’s crisis as normal as possible, and take it from there. </p><p>“See? That’s exactly what I told him and then, you know what he did? He started crying, and said that I was being mean to a fucking plant and made me apologise. To a fucking fern. The shit I put up with for this stupid fucker, lemme tell ya.” Tommy scoffs in Will’s direction, and we step onto dirt floor. Wilbur is again laughing at nothing, but he’s not as belligerent about this whole thing, and, for some reason, seems to be getting more cooperative, which would explain why he has abandoned his previous effort of trying to unsuccessfully untie Tommy’s bandana without him noticing, which was really something kind of doomed from the start, considering he was not being discreet about it at all. But, ‘A’ for effort, I suppose.</p><p>We pass the kitchen on our way to drop off the unconscious sibling, which was very much a mistake, and it took me about two minutes to realize that. Now, I hadn’t intended on stopping, not for a moment, but Wilbur had, very nicely, by the way, asked for water, and that seemed like a decent idea to me, perfectly reasonable, until… he insists he can handle it on his own, and nearly falls to the floor. Stumbling to his feet, and walking, as if asleep, through the doorway, yawning and pulling his beanie over his ears. A small, dull shiver seeming to pass over him like a shadow as he wordlessly passes Niki, who sits, wide-eyed, just sort of watching him in a still silence as he drunkenly, and rather badly, finds his way about the process of getting a glass of water. He’s humming something, but my focus, instead, darts to the set-in-stone fact that tears were welling in Niki’s eyes as she shakily gets to her feet, eyes not leaving him for a moment.</p><p>“Will?” She asks, craning her neck to try and meet his eyes, flinching backwards slightly as she watches him freeze, anything he’s doing coming to an abrupt halt. He turns around slowly, his entire demeanor dropping as he just stands there, face contorted in horror for what feels like a millenia, before a sob wells in his throat, and all of a sudden, Niki’s arms are around him.  He’s breaking down into himself, exploding like a dying star thousands upon thousands of light years away from us, the glass slipping from his hand, and shatters against the floor, the noise making both me and Tommy flinch. </p><p>“Listen… This is important, Niki, maybe the most important thing I’ve ever said, which isn’t saying much, because I’m just an idiot with a lot on my mind… hey. That rhymed.” Will laughs quietly, sniffling and violently wiping away the tears that were tracking down his face as if it was scalding hot water.</p><p> “You are very good at blaming yourself… You did a lot when we were… when we were kids, but this next move of mine, okay? It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I want you to live, all of you. Just like one big happy…. <em> family </em>. ” His words are barely even audible, but the moment they sink in, a steady, dull sense of panic sets in, a unsettling chill making its way up my spine. I swallow down my own fear, setting my hand on Tommy’s shoulder, our eyes meeting in a flurry of unspoken terror, and worry, and fear, before I tear my gaze away, and clench my jaw, watching the scene unfold in front of me. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t right. Something was… something was seriously fucking wrong.</p><p>For the first several seconds, Niki is deadly quiet, as if she’s trying to figure out a single possible response, a way to approach the subject without setting him off, because… don’t they all say that drunk words are sober thoughts? I think she knew full well, that right now setting him off, especially in this context, meant that he would just start to yell instead of cry, and I’d be forced to break up another fight. Suddenly, Niki takes a deep breath and forces out a half-stable smile, nodding as she rubs his back assuredly, tucking in loose strands of hair into his beanie, raising her hand to the bruise on his cheek, her finger tips dance across freckled skin and gnarled skin as delicate as the wings of a dove, and as loving as the quiet lullaby sung by a mother. </p><p>“I understand, Will. You just take deep breaths, okay? It’ll… It’ll be over soon, and you can… you can go home. I promise.” Niki whispers back to him, her voice having a sense of strength to it, that I was not able to even fathom in this moment, never mind project for the sake of another person, because I genuinely do not know how to handle this situation, besides just watch the scene in front of me and wait. </p><p>“That sounds nice. I don’t think I’ll live that long, though. I have very important things to do, okay? Oh, fuck. It looks like I broke the water glass. I’m sorry about the mess.” With a single, lingering smile, he falls, completely unconscious on her shoulder. Niki gasps, her hand dropping from his cheek, to around his shoulders, tightening her grip around him, tears tracking down her face as she sobs, bringing her hand to rest behind his neck, cradling him in to her as they sink to the floor as she hums something just barely familiar to me. </p><p>In that moment, both of their legacies, titles, and silly reputations fall away into nothing, and all of a sudden, they are just terrified children holding onto each other for dear life, as me and Tommy seemingly cannot do anything but stare, in silent horror, at the scene in front of us, our brother’s words echoing around the room, Tommy mouthing them on repeat when he turns to look at me, tears glistening and teeth pulling at the skin on his bottom lip as he shakes, and, stares off, far away past Niki or Will or me, his attention focused on the wall. </p><p>He seems to flinch each time he hears Niki, his eyes staring, unblinkingly, ahead. It was as if he could not stomach looking at his unconscious older brother, and before I can even wrap my head around the situation in completion, he’s running. And I do not have the heart to stop him. I cannot bring myself to do so, and wince, as I hear him run, his hollow, ragged breathing echoing against the cavern, like a quiet concert hall before a show, with only the stationary conductor standing in the middle of the stage.</p><p> I move in autopilot, putting my hand on Niki’s shoulder, and sighing as she looks at me, the message somehow coming across, and I find myself lifting my brother from her arms, the man falling limp, his arm hanging off, fingers dancing through the air, as if ballerinas upon a stage. A ghostly smile tracking across his face, and a sickening thought crosses my mind, that one day…  one day, possibly quite soon, it would be his corpse in my arms, makes me take a sharp intake of breath, a single tear falling upon Will’s cheek, a tear I chuckle sadly at and wipe away with my thumb, and for a moment, we’re nine again, and I’ve come back home. And, not to mention the fact that we’re both alive. And Mom’s just about to have Tommy, and we had the world ahead of us, so what happened? Why did it offer so much hope and peace, just to turn on us at the last minute? What kind of sick joke was this, and why was I forced to live through it, not able to do anything but participate, like a pawn from a chessboard, doomed to watch those around me fall, and I would be the idiot who’d pick up the pieces afterwards. Alone, for really the first time in my life, and it felt like each breath, brought us closer and closer to that inevitable living hell we were welcoming in to our lives with open arms. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>yeah, anyways, made niki a whole legacy warrior and gave you more wilbur angst because i am just that cool, and enjoy tragic tropes because i am a queer child. what's up fam. i am absolutely exhausted, by the way, if i am made to ski one more moment i might lose it [:<br/>i really do hope this was enjoyed, stay street, and thank you so much for continuing to support and read, it's amazing to watch!<br/>stay awesome, and i hope your existence is good!<br/>-El &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Freaking Out On The Interstate</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The air outside that falls, heavy like mud, after our rainstorm is sicky sweet, the earth warm and buzzing with life and something unseen and yet it burns at my lungs, the moon seeming cruel, the smile of the distant crescent seeming wrong, and deceitful, and I have to tear my eyes away with a low steady whimper than mourns having to remove myself from looking upon the moon, because for whatever some stupid, pathetic little reason, I was scared. Ender, I’m selling myself short, and I’m not short. I’m 6’3’’ on a good day, so there was really no reason for that.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello! i hope everyone's march went well, and i hope you're planning a right shindig for april fool's day. i am really happy with the characterization and dialogue in this chapter, and think it's some of my best work, in all honesty. writing tubbo is very interesting, especially both tommy and tubbo's whole dynamic, it's definitely a favorite of mine. again, i am so sorry about the slow updates, i have more content prewritten and more world building established and all that, and a really cool minecraft mythology i thought up instead of sleeping that i am pretty proud of, so i will definitely have a much more consistent upload schedule in april, thank heavens. the song for this chapter is 'freakin' out on the interstate', by briston maroney. fundy lore was today and it was really well done and also really scary because none of it was expected and oh my goodness gracious. also, none of this is shipping any of these characters, as they are minors and that is disgusting. they are written here as simply very good, childhood friends bordering on brothers. And, to be quite honest, should be the only way they are written in fanworks, period, because, guess what folks? they are minors, that is literally illegal, and they have expressed it makes them uncomfy, so refrain from that, por favor. anyways, alright that is enough from me, thank you so much for all the reads, hits, and kudos! it means the absolute world. please read the tw before the chapter, and enjoy the read!</p><p>tw: mentions of being h*ngover, and some repetitive mentions of light anxiety, and being set in a ab*sive, and unhealthy mindset, very light, and not elaborated on.<br/>stay street, and i hope your existence is a beautiful one!<br/>el &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>ACT I: The Deceit of Achilles</p><p>-TOMMY-</p>
<hr/><p>The air outside, heavy after our rainstorm, and sickly sweet. The earth warm and buzzing with life and something unseen, yet it burns at my lungs, the moon seeming cruel, the smile of the distant crescent seeming wrong, and deceitful, and I have to tear my eyes away with a low steady whimper than mourns having to remove myself from looking upon the moon, because for whatever some stupid, pathetic little reason, I was scared. Ender, I’m selling myself short, and I’m not short. I’m 6’3’’ on a good day, so there was really no reason for me to do that. It felt to me that each bone burns in a dystopia that my brain can’t seem to fucking comprehend. It has long been overrun, and taken the place of our once beautiful, felled utopia. I guess, I am just like he said. I am just a child, clinging to things that I know no longer exist, like what our nation was, the presidency, and, last, but not tragically least, my brother. He was still here, yeah. It’s not like he had died and been washed off the face of the earth, and although what he said was cryptic, I didn’t think he meant it. But nowadays, I just didn’t know. It was like stumbling around in a pitch black darkness, never knowing what’s behind you, or who’s going after you, and I hated it with every last breath in my goddamn lungs.</p><p>Was it selfish to wish I was the one he’d apologized to <em> instead </em> of Niki? Was it selfish that all I wanted was a hug? Even if I didn’t deserve any of it, especially there was really nothing for him to apologize for, not like he’d done anything inherently bad, but yet again… there were the little things. Those little flags and worries that I know he didn’t have when we were kids, but I really didn’t know what to do about him now. It’s not like I could fix him. People don't work like that, unfortunately. It’s not like he would even let me do anything but watch as things just imploded in on each other, spiraling into a wash of nothing, because he doesn’t let anyone help. He doesn’t let anyone intervene, because he has to have everything constantly in <em> his </em>control, and someone who is genuinely trying to help him, he, for whatever reason he has drilled into his stupidly stubborn mind, that he is undeserving of it, not to mention pushes it away, and takes up the defensive because he deems it as intervention. Doesn’t make any fucking sense, but we’re clearly past the point of trying to understand him, because it doesn't even seem like he can even understand himself right now.</p><p>I was used to my brother being strange and hard to comprehend, this wasn’t something new. I’d spent my entire life in his company, I’d watched him spin metaphors from the lights of the stars, and long and winding fables for me, Tubbo and his son from the lichen clinging to the river rocks to celestial deities that hung high on a clear night. He was a complex person, but I was still able to understand him. To make him laugh. But now… That, as well as a smile that matched mine whenever we got ourselves into something we probably shouldn’t have, was gone. And I didn’t know if it would ever return.</p><p>That whole cryptic apology of his from the kitchen had made that abundantly clear, and hell have no fury like the wake of Wilbur inevitably losing his shit tomorrow morning once he realizes what exactly happened tonight. He’s going to be livid. At me probably. Which reminds me, I need to find another corner to sleep in. I’d take a dark corner and a possible mob, over raging older brother with a hangover. At least in a corner I could have even some shred of peace and a chance to sneak away. If I slept in my cot, I would wake up to Will’s whole firestorm of drama, and it wouldn’t be fucking enjoyable, that’s for fucking sure. Techno would yell. Will would yell back. They’d expect me to pick a side. They’d both get mad when I couldn’t,, because how the hell could I? And then I would have to go somewhere else, even though I have, quite literally, <em>nowhere</em> else to go. </p><p><em> Peace </em>. What a funny little word. It sounds stupid, and the way its spelled only reinforces that, but what it means… is earth shaking, and there is not a thing in this world I would not give to have it back. To have just another hour playing guitar with my brother before everything went to shit, or horseback riding with Tubbo when we were kids all the way back when Sally was still around, a few months before Fundy was born, even. But time doesn’t work like that. It’s not something that can just… be controlled, or rewound. It’s the only thing with rules that will never be broken by man, or at least it was according to our father, which I could just tell pissed both twins off immediately, because… why wouldn’t it? They loved fucking around with rules and natural law. It was like a hobby of theirs, a hobby that pissed off our father, and infuriated the Monitor, who were definitely tired of visiting our house to yell at the twins at ungodly hours for, well, ungodly things they had decided to meddle in. That then was the closest thing to peace I’ve ever had, second only to when I’d met Tubbo, and the years we spent, as few as they were, actually living, and not just sporadically existing. I guess I spend far too much time dreaming of back when we were a family who had yet been touched by so much tragedy, and even with the tragedies we had seen, the world, for whatever reason, just seemed to spin right. I know full well that I cling to Will so much since he’s the last piece of that paradise that I really, truly have left, or…, even worse, even had in the first place. Life seems so idyllic and melancholic in the polaroid capture that sits in my memory, that I’ve forgotten that… it was never really like that. Not really. I’ve focused on the good things because that’s what I have to focus on, especially at this point in life, where there is so much bad I’ve been exposed too, that it doesn’t even bother me anymore, except that it does. And usually Tubbo or my brother would be here to calm me down, or distract me with something monotonous, but… not anymore. Tubbo had to stay away for his own safety, and I had to stay away from Will for mine, two things I loathed. Yet two more things I had absolutely no say in, like most things in my life, which was… something I would make a joke about if I didn’t want to cry, like right this minute, because my life was falling apart. I’m sixteen, and what kind of fucking bullshit is that? Honestly, though, I will understand this.</p><p>The crickets are loud, echoing throughout the night, and sounding through the valley, keeping their trilling as abundant and plentiful as humanly possible. This is probably one of their final hurrahs before they shut up and go to sleep for the winter, and then we won’t see them again until the grueling fucking freezing mess of a winter is over, but it’ll be worth it. It’ll all be worth it for spring, because that was when L’Manberg’s the prettiest, as me and Tubbo have gradually concluded throughout the years. It’s a tad cold yeah, but it slides right into summer heat, and the beautifully chilly nights spent chasing after lightning bugs, and harassing Punz’s cats, laughing and giggling, Tubbo close at my heels. The darkness is broken only by candle and lantern lights, that skirt up and down the path, leading home, the air sweet and reminiscent of family outings, swimming in the lake and days that weren’t so soaked in blood and decay. Days I hadn’t tasted in years, and god what I wouldn’t do to go to the beach again and just… I don’t know, <em>exist</em>, without anything else there to bother me, and nothing out there that wanted to hurt my family. But, right now… that is just a childish fantasy that will never come to be again, I don't think. I would never to legally walk that path again. I would never be allowed to chase after fireflies, because Vice Presidents do not conduct themselves like that, and I would never be able to spend the afternoon with my family, because of so many tiny things. Because of what happened to Techno, and how Phil reacted, and how I truly believe that was Will’s first step to his inevitable madness, one of many, yes, but it solidified his end. </p><p><em> ‘His end?’ </em> What the hell am I talking about, he’s not going to die. Will may be a lot of things, but he is far too stubborn to just… let himself die. But if he provoked it… if all of this ends in flames similar to those he holds behind amber skies, then… <em>Let’s think of something else, shall we?</em> There’s no good going over everything that could before whatever’s to take place next has even taken flight, it just… it doesn’t do any good but make you anxious, just like anticipating what the result of a battle is. You don’t know. You don’t know which way the guillotine falls until its felled. Until the dust has cleared, only then is when you can go tidying up the remains of a life you once had. I guess I had to wait. Surrender control to time, and bite my tongue through it, and I was good at holding my tongue, if I had learned anything from my brother’s presidency, it was to listen and observe. <em> Lives were saved if you noticed a liar, you know. Don’t ignore the signs. </em>I’m not ignoring the signs, but it’s hard not to when they’re all coming from the person who warned me of them in the first place. The person I trust to protect me, even now, when we both know there’s something wrong with one of us, maybe all of us, end knows our childhoods were fucked, maybe its just backlash from that, but I don’t think so. My brother has always been strong, but sometimes strength has to make way for rage, paranoia and… maybe even just human nature in itself, and there is nothing anyone can really do about that.</p><p>It’s early enough I can get away with sitting at me and Tubbo’s bench, I figure, as I walk along the Prime path. I hadn’t even made an effort to find it, I just had, subconsciously, and at this point, I was far too tired to comment on it. It was my home, after all, even though I had been turned away, it would always be home. This beautiful, beautiful place… I taste laughter on the wind, and the faint strumming of a guitar plays through the singing of the crickets. I hear Fundy giggling as I show him the constellations, and I see Will’s proud smile as I spin his son around, and let go, the both of us going flying and laughing so hard our lungs hurt, dragonflies, and butterflies rejoicing in our joy and seeming to bless our presence with theirs. However gentle and passive it was, similar to that of my nephew, who has always smiled with the worth of a thousand stars, and has always had the talent to melt Will, and send him, even in the worst of temperaments, smiling, and making that little boy laugh so hard he nearly cried. Our L’Manberg was still so young, and so beautiful, and even if she had been taken from us, I was still allowed to remember everything she was to me. That isn’t selfish. That isn’t something I have to be shamed for. I’m just missing home. Nothing bad about that. I pick my gaze up from the groves of the wood planks, smiling to myself as me and Tubbo’s bench comes into view. I pick up the pace, grinning like an idiot, probably, as I drag my hand against the back of the bench, our initials carved rather sloppily into the wood, and I take my seat, pulling my legs into my chest, and taking a deep breath, yawning and running my hand through my hair irritably. Wilbur had somehow managed to get tree branches and small patches of dirt stuck into my hair without me knowing, which, for some reason, makes me smile, no matter how much of a mess it'll be to detangle. </p><p>“Tommy?” A voice says from behind me, making me freeze, the breath leaving me as my eyes widen in fear, even though I know full well it’s Tubbo, because if it wasn’t, I would be dead. But I’d been disturbed, and that scared me. The realization that now was the present, and then was the past, and I could not go back stings, and makes me almost dizzy, but I bite my lip and take a breath, composing myself and turning around to smile at him. I don’t smile at him for long, because he looks like shit, to put it plainly, and I don’t think he would even notice, based upon the fact that he looks like a walking corpse, the circles that hang under his eyes that are far too dark to just be from ‘allergies’. His collar is pulled loose, his tie hangs, haphazardly from his neck, as if he’d untied it hurriedly, and angrily. He’s wringing his hands, his eyes looking around for someone who isn’t there with panic, that I am relieved to see fall however slightly when he sees me, a heavy concern evident, which is… very fair. I was breaking the law, right now, and legally, I could be executed for this, but fuck it. I don’t care, execute me if you want, this whole thing is tiring enough as it is. Me sitting on a bench for a little bit, did not matter. It’s not like I was illegally just changing my status of not being a wanted man halfway through like a certain someone, no, I was just trying to ground myself at me and my best friend’s bench, there is nothing wrong with that, and I will not be taking criticism on that. Just let me watch the stars and be safe on my own, then I’ll go away. I just need a moment, then I’ll go back underground. </p><p>“Tommy, what are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here, if someone saw you...”  He says, trailing off as looks around nervously, as if he expected Schlatt to fall out of a tree, or something. I scoff, leaning my head back against the bench and sighing, looking up into the stars, rubbing my eyes and yawning. I need to fucking sleep sometime this century, I can feel the exhaustion weighing down at my throat, causing my limbs to ache, and my ribs to feel as if they were slowly separating. Like the wings of a butterfly emerging from a rotten chrysalis, and for some reason, maybe it was rom the cocktail of anxiety and terror that seemed to have worked its way into my bones, rooting itself there, and not budging. I suppose it was keeping me alive, terror triumphing instinct, but… soldiers aren’t supposed to be afraid. <em> And children aren’t supposed to be soldiers, are they, kiddo?  </em>Wilbur’s voice echoes from the back of my mind, cutting through my initial threshold of panic. Replacing it with full on terror, which was just fucking wonderful and too fucking much to unpack at four in the fucking morning, the whole ordeal making me feel like I’m going to collapse.</p><p>“Nobody is going to know I was even here. It’s almost three in the morning right now, Tubbo. And besides, it’s not like anybody actually walks the path at night anymore, because nobody bothers to light the lanterns, so I’m really not too worried about it.” I huff, shrugging as he sighs, and walks towards our bench. Cracking his knuckles so suddenly I have to resist my urge to flinch as he looks up into the tree, probably checking out some noise I simply do not care enough to investigate. But, it doesn’t seem to be a person, as Tubbo slips off his jacket and angrily drops it against the armrest of the bench, gritting his teeth and dropping down next to me, turning to meet my eyes. He forces a smile. I can tell it's forced, I’ve grown up with him, of course I know what a faked smile looks like. But at this point, a smile is a smile, and since I have had a whole day and a half of putting up with Mr. Misery’s bullshit, as long as someone is happy to see me, that is enough for me right now.</p><p>“Is everything okay, dude? You look… I don’t know, disturbed?” He says suddenly, breaking the momentary silence along with the crickets, who apparently seemed to take a hint, and start off again, trilling through the valley as if they truly were the songbirds of the night, however fucking annoying they might be. The crickets aside, he’s seen through me, like I see through Wilbur, I guess familiarity does that. We grew up together, he knows me better than anyone, but there are some things I don’t want to bother him with. That I don’t want to talk to him about. But, things are decaying faster than ever, and I don’t think I have that option open to me anymore. Not while I’m watching Wilbur drown in his lies, and me thinking about how another cycle is starting all fucking over again. But this time… this time the only variable that was different, is that instead of me, it would be done to Tubbo. The kid who deserves the world, and the little boy who I’d promised it all too, only to have it go… well, in the way that it is. But, none of that promise talk has to be past tense. Not if I can get my fucking shit fucking together, and I need to get it together fast,<em> ‘War waits for no man,’ </em>and all that metaphorical shit Techno loves.</p><p>“My irritating fucking older brothers are being themselves again and it’s a lot to put up with, as you know, so I came here so I could have even a moment of silence for quite literally my first time today. It’s nice to see you, though. I’ve missed you a lot.” I say, nudging him with my arm and laughing along with him when he scoffs at me insulting my brothers. If I close my eyes, it’s just like it was before, and for once, living in denial and crayon tinted nostalgia, is fine. I find myself smiling for quite literally the first genuine time today. Even though I know I am panicking, and it’s not something I can get away from, it is ebbing away each time he turns to look at me. It is comfortable knowing that there is someone who still exists who laughs at my jokes, and isn’t just doing it to get on my good side, or soften the news of something worse.</p><p>“I’ve missed you, too. It is really good to see you, you don’t even know how wonderful, actually, the day I had was bleak and shitty, and I’m guessing yours wasn’t much better. Now, scoot over, I’m fucking freezing, dude.” He says, elbowing me rather violently in the gut. Laughing as I shake my head, giggling uncertainly as I hold my side as I scoot over, making room for my friend, who brings his legs up to his chest, hands rubbing at his knees in, what looks like, an attempt to stay even somewhat warm, which made me laugh. He’s never been too good at temperature retention, and I really don’t know why. He’s always been weird like that, too. Like, when we were kids, and whenever the temperature dipped below sixty, he would have to walk around the house in the mornings wrapped up in a blanket just to keep warm, and would be a whole lot more cuddly and clingy as all fuck, which I did not mind, and rather enjoyed, even though I would never tell anyone that for the sake of my own reputation. </p><p>“You are going to drive me to murder, for the love of End. Tubbo, this is why we wear coats. So we don’t freeze while we go outside.” I sigh, raising my eyebrows at him and scoffing when he sighs and leans back, taking a deep breath into literally just the night sky, fingers going to his temples, as if he as suffering from a severe migraine, or something, which was fair. My presence has been known to cause headaches for others in the past. I am not going to pretend to even be a civil member of society who abides by bullshit like inside voices, but even then, I can see the faint dustings of a smile across his lips. He’s never been good at pretending to be angry, or even sad, as his pretend crying is pitiful, but I love it, and couldn’t care less, having him with me right now is enough to right all of my mind and my family’s various wrongs they can’t just talk through, because why would they do that, but he’s here. Just like he always is, and has been since we were little, and that is one of the best things that I am, <em> somehow </em>, still allowed to call my own. </p><p>“You are not one to argue with me about this, you literally have to get your life threatened to wear a hat whenever it gets cold, remember that, Tommy?” He says, narrowing his eyes, poking at my shoulder, and nudging me pointedly with his elbow. He eyes me mischievously, as if he was ready to mop the floor with me emotionally, which, after he had accumulated the skill of a politician, I knew full well he could, and, even if it was all a joke, would, without a second’s hesitation. </p><p>Tubbo has always been a bit of an abnormality. I’ve known him for most of my life, and although he is genuinely one of the sweetest, kindest people I’ve ever had the pleasure to call a friend, he is also <em>unpredictable</em>. There’s something… a bit, I don’t know, so <em> unforgiving </em> about him for my nerves. Especially how he swings his mace around on the battlefield, as if it just another part of him. How, when he thinks nobody’s looking at him, his gaze seems miles long, especially when you put it into perspective that he is just a seventeen year old kid, a year and and a few months older than me. Granted, we were all gnarled by war, and at this point it is hard not to be, our minds distorted and dampened by the steady, intervening symphony of swords, and the ricochet of arrows and bullets, and the finishing finale of a sea of fiery explosives. Leaving crimson contrails against scarred, freckled skin, and sometimes, it did truly feel like we were back there. Fighting a fight that has long been transcribed in the pages of time, a fight that we had long celebrated the end of, but… in war, what is there, <em>really</em>, to celebrate?  Tubbo’s fourteenth birthday was spent in the trenches. The both of us crouching over a small candle I’d bartered for from an elderly candlemaker in a village. It had been a long, tedious day, and I wish I could say staying awake was easy, but I do not remember it that way. I had hummed the birthday song to him as quietly as I could, whispering the verse with his name, and hoping that it wouldn’t alert anyone to our location. After the candle was extinguished, I remember him hugging me, and thanking me, almost silently, before he began to sob, as quietly as we had sang, into my shoulder. I’d pulled him close to me, wrapping my arms around him and looking around nervously, biting the skin away from the inside of my cheek, as if I was afraid that something was going to fall out of the sky and hurt him. I’d run my hands through his hair, cringing each time he whimpers when I am too rough with pulling a clump of matted hair through, the mud and blood caking off in my fingers. A few moments before he had finally managed to drift off to sleep, I had muttered a happy birthday to him, and he had responded with a quiet, <em> thank you </em>. </p><p>That was the same night an illness had my nephew hanging inches from a putrid, nasty death from some sort of minor infection from a bullet graze that had gone bad. My brother, gently rocks his son back and forth, as he holds the boy impossibly close to his body. He was so incredibly angry at himself for not having anything to dull his little boy’s pain, and humming something quietly to him, tears dwelling in the back of his eyes, that I knew he would never let escape, not in front of his son. And especially not in this context. Jack was right across from us, hands shaky as he was busy drawing something in a notebook, his eyes remaining on the page, as if his life counted on it, his shoulders trembling when he looked away from whatever it was he was sketching, remembering exactly where we were and how completely fucked were. But now… now was not the time to wade through painful memories, even though there are thousands of them to pick and choose like a novel on a shelf. But, for now, I had to stay with Tubbo, and live as blissfully in the moment as I could. Because right now, I was with him, and who knows when that’ll all be pulled away, like paper boats taken with the tide, without much control over where they go, besides remaining alive and afloat. For the moment… this would have to be enough. The stars are out, I can’t be off thinking about past shit, they are too pretty for that, and Tubbo’s here, so it definitely not the time for a fucking breakdown. I flash a smile and laugh, rolling my eyes at him, and wracking my brain for any possible ammunition I could use to throw at him.</p><p>“Oh, I definitely remember. I also remember when you cried because Will forced you to put on your shoes so we could go for a hike when we were, like, eight, do you remember that, Tubbo?” I throw his way, chuckling, as he looks shocked, shaking his head in alarm, as if I’d slapped him, and leaning away from me, side against the armrest as he stare at me, laughing in something that sounds like shock.</p><p>“I don’t think I really want to talk about this with you anymore.” He says, crossing his arms over his chest, and meeting my eyes with a stubborn, playful, glare I knew full well was bullshit, but that didn’t mean I was going to pretend to not be pretend offended. A commitment to a bit is a noble one, and end, were we good at it. </p><p>“You are literally a toddler.” I say, rolling my eyes and poking him in the shoulder, as I scoff and lean back against the back of our bench, trying my best to repress the traces of a smile so I didn’t wreck the moment prematurely.</p><p>“I will hit you in the face.” He threatens, bringing his fists up, as if he was about to hit me, which I know is utter bullshit, and I smile, unable to not laugh as he hits me with the most feral expression I have seen in quite a while, which dulls into a pout, and he crosses his arms, shaking his head childishly at me.</p><p>“And then I will cry, and then you will also cry, and we’ll see who’s laughing, then.” I say, chuckling as I watch him lean back and sulk, his face wordlessly flipping me off, which was an expression I’d really only seen perfected to this severity on him, which was just as treasure to receive, if I’m all honest. I scoff, and roll my eyes at him.</p><p>“You are manipulating me, and I will report you to your father.” He huffs, humorous irritation flickering across his features as he glares at me, the threat hanging over us for a moment before I realize how straight up bonkers it really is, and turn my head to the side, blinking, as if I’m trying to figure out a complicate maths problem. </p><p>“That is… Huh? You threatened to hit me in the face, you dickhead! What did you expect?” I demand, throwing out my arms in exasperation and looking at him with the most indignant smile I can muster.</p><p>“<em> Lower your voice, Tommy. </em> If you get hurt and it's because of me I will break both your legs. Also yes I did threaten to hit you in the face, I know full well it works to piss you off, and you proved me right, you git.” He says, the new fluidity of his words taking me by surprise, and causing me to lean back to think about how he immediately took command of the conversation, and how good he was at it, as if he was used to having to be the voice of reason, which… made a lot of sense, what with him working in Schlatt’s cabinet, and all.</p><p>“You talk more diplomatic, now, did you know that? Don’t scowl about it, man. I think it’s cool.” I blurt, regretting it the moment I’ve let loose, and wincing as if half expecting a physical repercussion, and grinning when I see nothing from him but a content smile, as if I’d just handed him the heaviest comment he’d ever received.</p><p>“Thank you. I’m a high stakes politician, now, you know. I gotta keep my head afloat while I swim with the sharks that is Schlatt and Quackity.” He says, winking at me, and he reaches for my hand, gently lifting it off my knee by the wrist, and skirting the memory of scars  with his pinkie, his eyes softening, as he exhales a gentle sigh, looking at me from the side, his head turning to look at me, even though I have already started to bristle, and the need to flinch away begins to bubble in the pit of my chest.</p><p>“Seriously, how are you holding up, and be honest, please, I am too tired for bullshit at this hour.” His words are aggressive, but his tone is gentle, and his eyes resemble silk, darting from the sustained eye contact, to the back of my hand, his fingertips still trailling the backside of my hand that is dappled in faint scarring from conflicts I can picture shockingly clearly in my mind’s eye. I know there is no way I’m getting out of this, and I take a breath, preparing myself for the worst possible reaction, even though it never comes, as I straighten my posture and try to think about how exactly I’ll go about explaining this sea of bullshit I had, for whatever reason, been cursed with.</p><p>“I… everything will be fine eventually, I know that. It sounds like I’m being a fucking coward, but since I’ve been asked to be honest with you, I am so tired of being strong for everybody else around me. It’s just… exhausting, and I know that’s what’s needed, and required of me right now, but I just want to be able to sleep for once, but then again… I don’t have much choice or say in any of this so I right now that’s all I think I can do.” I mumble, keeping my eyes to the ground. My fnger tapping against my knee, as I feel my breath beginning to run from me, the feeling deadly, and unpleasant, and I realize, I am not as good at hiding shit as I originally believed, which is just fantastic for me, truly. I love existence, god, I want a hot pocket and twelve to thirteen hours of sleep that is not riddled in nightmares.</p><p>“What do you mean? ‘You’re tired of being strong for everybody else’, is something happening? Tell me what’s going on. Talk me through it, bud.” He says, narrowing his eyes in concern, as he pulls a stick out of my hair and flicks it to the ground. It was wholesome, and kind, but for whatever fucking reason it’s enough to remind me of the bullshit at home, and in specifics, how Techno had done the same thing Tubbo just did with me, with Wil moments before shit hit the fan, and our ignorance was shattered, and we were no longer allowed to force out lies that could explain why we knew things weren’t okay, but could do nothing but pretend it was fine. I feel my breathing become more and more hysterical, my throat feeling as if it’s closing as I hear Wil’s maniacal laughter echo through my mind, and I grip at the fabric gathered at my knees, ignoring the burn of tears tracking down my face as I turn to look at my friend, eyes hollow and vapid.</p><p>“Tubbo, we’re losing him. We’re losing Will. And you know what? He thinks I don’t know, he thinks none of us know, but that’s not true because I have known for weeks, Techno probably even longer because of their creepy fucking twin thing. We didn’t want to say anything to him, because then he’d just get mad, and you know how pissy he gets, or maybe we just thought whatever it was would resolve itself, but it definitely didn’t, that’s for fucking sure. And now, after whatever the shit that was that he pulled in that kitchen moments ago, Niki knows. She knows, and she’s going to yell at me for it, and I don’t want to get yelled at again today, especially not by Niki. But…. He’s all I fucking have, Tubbo. I can’t fucking lose him, he’s the whole reason behind why I haven’t fucking died hundreds of times beforehand because I’m a stupid fucking idiot with no self preservation or limitation, which he knows, and he only knows because he raised me and I got it from him, and now he’s… he’s… he’s fucking killing himself. How is it fair that the man who kept me alive is dying in front of me, and I don’t know what to do. I just want to go home, but I can't because that isn't a place that's mine anymore, and the people I love I don't understand, and you're far away, and I… I just want it to be how it was, but it won't be." My breathing is fucking wrecked by now. Words and scattered phrases falling from my lips in broken gasps, and tasting like burnt metal, scalding my tongue and sending the cold waves of panic through my spine and to each bone that has the misfortune to be in my body. I wanted to go home. I wanted to hide. But, I wasn’t fucking five. I had to shut up and be strong. Even if I wanted to collapse against the arm rest and just let my brain be carried far, far away from my body, disarming me here, and leaving me to travel amongst the stars.</p><p>“Tommy. <em> Calm </em>. Calm down. Take my hand and try to breathe. That’s it. Good job. It’ll be okay, man, I promise. We’ll get through this. We always do.” He grabs my hands by the wrists, grounding me here as he caresses my skin with his thumbs, a steady smile remaining on his face as I slowly trickle back into the moment, breath fading from panicked to just faintly unstable, which was manageable, and didn’t bring much attention to me. I nod quickly, trying to soften my nerves and stop my tears from falling by taking steady breaths.</p><p>"Breathe with me. In. Out. You're okay. You're here with me, you're holding my hand, and we're sitting on our bench. You are alive. I am alive. Everything's okay." He’s trying, and god does it mean the world, but I cannot focus on his words, because me being alive wasn’t the problem, that wasn’t the brother we should be worried about, it was the boy forever ignored as a boy, and forever doubted as an adult who’s reaction to all of this should have caused more alarm back when it all began, and suddenly, I’m biting at the skin on my lip, as my breathing accelerates, my thoughts feeling like molten metal, and I want to fall to the floor, the words spilling from me like the speed of rain falling during a monsoon.</p><p>“Everything’s okay. I’m so fucking calm and okay right now, oh no but I am not. He’s dying, I think. He’s dying, Tubbo. And I’m not stupid, I may be a bit younger than everybody else, but I’m not fucking stupid, okay? He’s not himself, and he hasn’t been, for a good long while, and I don’t know if we can ever get him back.” I do not speak through tears, just the labor of lungs, and the weight of an ugly I had ignored for far too long than I cared to admit. It sounds like I’m tired, too tired to even have a breakdown correctly, and that makes me laugh, chuckling as I bring my hands to my face, burying it away from the world. Trying my best to compose myself with petty little breaths who do nothing but help me pretend I was not one good shove  away from collapsing. </p><p>“If we don’t, or… rather, can’t, what do we do then?” His words are like ice, and I wish I could unhear that, but I can’t, because he’s right, and right now, my filter is gone, so when the next words are expelled from my lips in panicked, manic gasps, I don’t do anything but nod, sighing and trying to steady myself by rocking steadily back and forth. </p><p>“I don’t know. Going somewhere far away and never coming back sounds very good. Being safe and okay, and with you seems very nice.” I mutter, leaning into his shoulder, eyes dazed and a light smile falling across my lips, even though none of this is natural. I am not one to do shit like that, I’m no coward, yet here I am… <em> crumbling </em>. </p><p>“Yeah, Tommy. It does sound nice. You want to tell me more about it, buddy?” Tubbo whispers back, discreetly wrapping his arm around me and meeting my eyes with a small smile that I find myself matching, however slightly, with a hysteric laugh that is probably far too loud for the hour that it is.</p><p>“Sure. You would have a bee hive. Not the ones here, but… new ones, I don’t think you can take bee hives on trips. And you’d sing again, and you wouldn’t be as sad, and we’d read together on the ground again like we used to as kids, and we’d make it better, and we’d try to heal, and I wouldn’t have to be scared anymore because it would just be you and me, and that’s more than enough for me. Would you want to go with me?” I ask, my voice trembling, but my anxiety trickles away at the prospect of maybe being able to run free, far away from so much pain and death, and just be able to live with my best friend, and be selfish about this place, for even just once. To put myself first before L’Manberg, or more accurately, the sickly, bittersweet decay of it that I can smell in the air, although I wish to the very depths of my soul that I did not, but it has hard to ignore something you have been living with it, even if you do not care to admit to it.</p><p>“What?” He asks, eyebrows furrowed, ad I immediately begin to regret quite a few things.</p><p>“Would you want, if it does go down how I think it will, and it ends badly, do you want to run away with me?” I say, swallowing away my anxiety and speaking with as much gusto as I can manage, making sure to meet his eyes, biting at my lip as I do so, which I have just accepted at this point, even though the realization I am doing it, each time that happens, kills me right on the spot, and this time is no different.</p><p>“I- Tommy, listen to me. Running away won’t fix it. It seems like the perfect solution, I know, and if it could work, I would go with you this very moment, but it won’t. It’ll just delay everything, and then well be forced to come back to something so much worse. We have to meet this head on, even if it’s painful, we have too, because at the end of the day, we are the whole reason this country is here, and we should try and defend it.” He says, eyes sad, for a reason I am not too sure of, and he sighs, sadly, looking up into the sky, as if consolidating his thoughts.</p><p>“I am regretting letting you be a politician.” I say quietly, smiling as he looks down at me, faint ounces of truth held tight in my words, but also a rush of it all being just a bit, but even with that mental game of chess, he seems to interpret it for his own, and smiles sadly, and chuckles, sounding close to miserable.</p><p>“And I am regretting leaving you alone with him.” His words knock me off my orbit, and yank the breath straight from my lungs, and I feel the burden of truth weighing heavy on my shoulders in both deadly aim at finding exactly what the issue was of the situation, and the feeling of not being emotionally accustomed to a companion of mine telling the truth, especially to me specifically, since it had not happened, genuinely, in fucking weeks, and god, do I miss being cared for, but I guess I can’t cry about it, and have to take what I can get.</p><p>“Don’t regret that. I am not worth your regrets, and I do not want to be that for you. I’m your friend, okay? I like being someone’s something positive, makes the day seem prettier, I think. And I could say the same about leaving you with Schlatt.” I whisper, laughing, and running my hands through my hair nervously, passing him a small, cautious smile, as I shrug, slumping back down, and trying to play the moment off as laissez faire one, which, was pointless from the start, as this matter held my mortality hook, line and sinker, whether I liked it or not, and that mortality was possessed in the hands of the boy next to me, and in a way, it always would. </p><p>“You didn’t leave me with him. I chose to stay, and I don’t regret things if I’m helping my friends." He says, his eyes are calm, and yet his tone is awash in dedication, and steady sincerity, unwavering, and if I was even just more unstable, it would have probably made me start crying. He was so right, and instead of just being content with the contentment of being right, he still chose to push the blame away from me without even a second thought. Excuse me for ranting, I am just reeling over the knowledge that that just happened.</p><p>“Then we are both choosing to stay somewhere dangerous and deal with the consequences. We are about to sing of similar regrets to those who come after us, you know that, right?” I say, turning to look at him, not able to hide how genuinely appalled I am of his reaction to the doom declaration I’d ust uttered, as he flashes me a gentle optimistic smile, and squeezes my hand, his just genuinely beautiful amber-brown eyes, appearing encouraging and delicate as he beams at me like the summer sun.</p><p>“I know, but I would not ask you to stay unless I knew good times are just around the bend. We just have to hang on until then.” He says, his voice sounding like satin, and the panic slides away like melted butter, and I find myself believing him wholeheartedly. He was a man of his word. If he said something was bound to happen, he was speaking from personal understanding, and it would happen, even if there was an ‘eventually’, nestled somewhere in there.</p><p>“Okay.” I say, nodding, and forcing a grin directed back at him.</p><p>“Okay.” He whispers, wringing his hands and winking at me, flashing a stupid looking smile I know was invented due to my own nonsense, and I beam at him, sighing and tilting my head up to the sky, eyes searching the heavens, keeping the stellar checkpoints and clusters I’d been taught in my mind, as my eyes roam, grinning when I see Ursa Major, the Milky Way big and bright against the night, and I chuckle happily, taking a deep breath and inhaling the taste of new life, and the hidden aftertaste of hidden death.</p><p>“The stars are pretty tonight. There's a meteor shower near Libra, I think.” I whisper, leaning in to him and pointing, abstractly, in the direction I think is Libra, his eyes following my hand, and lighting up, scanning the sky haphazardly. </p><p>"Really? That's amazing." He whispers, still relentlessly scanning the horizon for probable shooting stars, the faded replay of the game we all used to play late at night when sleep evaded us, back when we slept up in the rickety hammock-cot-thing, spread across the front seat of the van, pulling away the curtains of the skylight, and waiting, in a gentle rapture, to see who could spot more falling stars before we eventually just passed out.</p><p>I smile, chuckling to myself, and tapping a gentle rhythm against the side of his arm, conveying something I didn’t have the words to say to him, but is tapped back to me none-the-less, stilling the pitter patter of my heart, that for whatever, reason, was going off its handle in internal panic, even though on the outside I was completely fine.</p><p>“What is, uh, what’s your favorite constellation?” Tubbo whispers to me, clearing his throat and turning to look at me through the corner of his eye, attention rapt and focused, as he leans his chin on his knuckles, intensely staring down the hill, bottom lip disappearing as he gnaws on it while deep in thought. </p><p>“Hmm. I have to think about this. Not all of them are overhead right now, because we’re going into our winter months, but I’d have to say Aries, and Pegasus. What about you, Tommy?” He says, scratching the side of his face, and nodding as he turns back to look at me, nodding contently and yawning, stretching upwards and slumping back down, exhaustion peeking through for a moment, before his smile returns, and that emotion is no longer one he is letting me be privy too, as he silently returns to the excitement of hearing which constellations I like the most.</p><p>“Hercules, Gemini, and The Phoenix. I can’t settle with one, they are all very nice. Why do you favor Aries, Tubbo? I don’t think I’ve ever asked.” I say, stretching back against the bench suddenly, and sighing, relieved, when my back cracks, eyes remaining set, directly on my friend, who huffs out a small laugh and clears his throat, looking off into the distance while he formulates his thoughts, which seems to happen quite a lot when he’s tired. </p><p>“Do you remember when we were little, and Will and Techno would tell us those stories about the stars to put us kids to sleep?” He remarks through another stray yawn, eyes drifting up to the sky again, as his knee bounces next to me relentlessly. God, I feel so guilty keeping him awake, mans already looks like he’s tired enough to fucking collapse, an yet my dumbass is keeping him awake to talk about the stars, and for whatever reason, he is just letting it happen without complaint.</p><p>“Yeah, I do. Techno would always start the night off with his three favorites, Theseus, Ariadne, and the Tragedy of Achilles, because he's a man of class, you know that. Then him and Will would take requests.” I whisper, smiling as memories of their story times, so animated it felt like we were running through the hills of Greece, and running our hands along the edge of the Acropolis all on our own. The taste of cocoa an warm milk fill my senses, I chuckle, grinning as I sniffle, bringing my arms around my shoulders. Apparently not moving had helped the steady chill sneak into my bones, stinging, and freezing away at me, without my body offering any fight due the vapid immobility that sitting on a bench at the chilly and unnatural hour of three am I’d become so accustomed too tends to cause. </p><p>“Yeah! According to Greek mythology, yeah? Aries is the ram who saved some guy named Phrixus, and was later sacrificed to the gods, and became the Golden Fleece. I’ve always liked his story because he was a protector, even indirectly, even while dead, he remained a protector of those he loved and the land he belongs to. It’s honorable, and humble, and also, those who carry that zodiac sign have not wronged me yet, so… it’s a pretty cool thing all around, I think.” I am taken aback by his words, leaning backwards, and looking at him as if he is a painting in a museum. It made sense. It made so much fucking sense. Ender, the fact that all he wanted to do was protect others made me want to hug him. I, however, repress that urge, which would probably make him make me talk about feelings and other sappy shit, which was not something that was taught in my household. But, oddly enough, but making pasta was, so that’s real cool. I nod, smiling, and venturing on with a response, although I have been fully floored by the one that was made by his previously. Each time I hear my friend speak of his dreams it makes me so ecstatic I could just start fucking singing, because End, do I wish I could make each and every one a reality.</p><p>“And the Pegasus?” I inquire, gentle smiles made of realized dreams littering through my being, that don’t even dim when he giggles and raises his eyebrow at me, laughing and grinning at me sardonically.</p><p>“Tommy, it’s a flying horse. What isn’t cool about a flying bloody horse?” He says, like the textbook definition of the word irritated, and find myself being very grateful that it is night time, so he can’t see the embarrassed pink tinge on my cheeks, because I would just die then and there if that was brought up, I think, even if the only reason its happening is because of how embarrassingly funny that whole moment turned out to be on my end.</p><p>“You aren’t wrong. Flying horses would be so cool.” I say, tilting my head as I shrug, beaming at him.</p><p>“Right? What about you? That’s quite a line up of favorites you got there, big man.” He says, smiling and nudging my shoulder. I sigh, clearing my throat, and crack my neck, looking into the sky.</p><p>“The twins remind me of my brothers. You know, when I was younger, like… I don’t know, six or seven, and whenever my brothers would go somewhere without me, mum told me to look up and try to find gemini, because if I could find the twins in the skies, there was no reason why they wouldn’t come home, because I could find them in real life. I know that’s not how that works, now, of course, and it was just something my mum told me to help me calm down, but… I haven’t stopped searching the skies for gemini. They’re over there, by the way. I noticed them when I sat down. Look over near the right of Eret’s stupid fucking penis tower, if you wanna see them.” I whisper, barely even daring to spit out my story. Personal things are hard to talk about, but I am working on it, and I know I very clearly won’t get shamed for it, and Tubbo’s current expression, only backs that up, because right now, he looks like he may cry, which he better not, or I will have another reason to start fucking crying, and it will simply just be a mess.</p><p>“They’re beautiful, Tommy. That story is beautiful, too.” Tubbo says, grinning at me, and elbowing me playfully,-again-, in the side, which makes me laugh, and through a stupidly wide grin, I elbow him back, allowing myself to be content in the moment for the first time in far too fucking long, before the reality of everything sinks back in and my breath comes in with a sharp gasp, and destruction flickers across my imagination, and I turn to him, trying to force my desperation away, so it doesn’t accidentally scare him.</p><p>“Thank you, Tubbo. Can you, um, can you promise me that our story will be beautiful, too? That it won’t just be pain and death and all that stupid shit, because I don’t want that. I don’t want to die somewhere cold and bleak, I want to die with you, if I can rig it that way. Can you, can you, uh, promise me that I won’t have to search for you like I search for them?” I whisper, voice cracking as I keep my eyes locked on a pebble near my foot. I have absolutely no want or need to look at him because I know he will see I’m near-tears, and for personal reasons, I can’t have that. I can cry about this later, its time to move onto other matters.</p><p>“You won’t. I promise. We’ll stay together, Tommy. To the end. I know we will. I promise we will.” He says, beaming as he looks out into the night sky, voice laden in a truth that is reinforced like a steel safe by something I cannot name, but I know he is being genuine, and for now, the swirling fucking mess of fear and panic in my gut has been resolved, and I am allowed to take a breath, looking back up into the heavens to find the moon, who takes the breath right out of me. She’s veiled, the faint gauze of clouds hiding her partially from view, the crescent hanging low in the sky, and even moments from setting, she still remains the prettiest thing to grace the skies.</p><p>“Okay. The moon is so pretty, isn’t it, Tubbo? I never get to see her set anymore, but… fuck, is it a sight to behold.” I say, sniffling as I feel cold tears tracking down my face, fueled by both whatever hurricane was going on in my own mind and spirit, and the biting morning chill.</p><p>“Are you… crying?” He asks me gently, his head turning as he speaks, and his eyes turn satin, softening as they rest in my direction, as beautiful as if they were the moon’s cousin, awash with their own celestial entities, and skies full of stars he had yet to tell me about.</p><p>“No. I am just looking at the moon. Big Man Tommy Soot-Minecraft doesn’t cry, you know that.” I say, in tears, doing my very best to pretend like I am not, and that the moon is just very interesting. </p><p>“I do. I know that very well. But it would be fine if he did, y’know? Feeling stuff is okay. I wouldn’t shame anyone for that. Especially not someone I love.” He says, clasping his hands together, and scratching the back of his thumb nervously, his eyes still not leaving mine, and remaining gentle and calm, as if he knew I was not functioning at that level, and had to be brought down a pip, even if he didn’t want to make that explicit knowledge.</p><p>“No feelings right now, okay? Just… just be here with me for as long as you can. I don’t want to have to say good-bye yet.” I say, turning my head from the pebble I’d been staring down, to smile, wistfully, at my friend, who looks as if he trying to put an expression to the term bittersweet.</p><p>“I’m not going anywhere, Tommy. Not yet. You don’t have to say good bye, not until the sun rises, okay? For now, just watch the stars with me, and we’ll deal with the problem when it rears its head, okay?” He assures me, and reaches for my hand, squeezing it tight, and tapping gently onto the back of my palm, beaming as he watches me start to smile, even though it fades away into a careful one of reserve and pride, like one that matched my brother’s after I started making friends that weren’t Tubbo, which, believe it or not, was something I had to work on, which seems completely ridiculous, and makes me want to slap something.</p><p>“Okay. Is it okay if I rest my head on your shoulder?” I ask, wincing when I hear the audible tremor in my voice, and having to fight an urge to look back at my pebble.</p><p>“Thank you for asking, and yes. Of course you may.” He says, beaming when I turn to look at him in relief. I nod and scoot closer to him, leaning my head on his shoulder, and sighing, drumming my fingers absently on the bench slat next to me just to keep another noise in the foreground. </p><p>“You are so annoyingly formal now, Tubbo.” I say, yawning and doing my best to look at him, and beaming when his once-relaxed expression slides into one of shock, and quite honestly, it makes me want to start cackling loudly, and oh would I have if it was not nearing sunrise, and the consequences of being heard would, in fact, be, a probable execution, or something else abhorrently tacky.</p><p>“Oh, shut the fuck up!” He whisper-yells at me, smacking my knee, and pouting slightly, but not pushing me away from him, which flags me as strange for a moment before I dismiss it, clearing my throat as an idea thoroughly smacks me upside the head. And it’s not a shitty one either, it’s a relatively decent one, I’d say, I just have to muster up the courage to do it, and since I’m exhausted, the filter is gone, and the words leave my lips before I have a chance to stop them.</p><p>“Hey, uh, Tubbo?” I ask, clearing my throat again and doing my most to remember not to bite my lip. The thing had started scarring. Already. And the last fucking thing I wanted was for that to mirror my brother, no fucking way was I allowing that. So for now, I base that stupidly neurotic habit on self restraint, and go to pick at my nail beds instead. If this went bad, I would genuinely go get myself mauled by a whole gaggle of silverfish, I have reached my fucking limit.</p><p>“Yeah, Tommy?” He says, looking at me expectantly, but not as if he was poking a finger at me, ready to start yelling at me, or something. He looks at me as if he’s the birds before it’s early mornings that sit in the trees, eagerly awaiting the warmth of the sun as it rises over the valley, in order to have their chance to sing in the sun, but I don’t know if I have enough responsibility to be someone else’s sun, but I wasn’t so sure that if I even deserved it, or if I did not. Regardless of that fact, I clear my throat, again and begin to speak, even though getting mauled by silverfish is sounding better and better by the minute.</p><p>“Do you have your bandana with you? It’s okay if you don’t, we can do it another time, I just had an idea.” I say, making sure to cover my tracks in case he got mad, which I know Tubbo would never, but… there’s always an off day, and I don’t want to be caught in that fallout, you know? </p><p>“Yeah, I have it in my pocket. Schlatt has this stupid uniform dress-code, and I don’t want him to ask about it, so I keep it there while I’m on the clock. Do you need me to get it for this idea of yours?” He isn’t mad, because Tubbo isn’t the type, at least around me, others were free game, I’d watched him flip his shit countless times, and every time I became both equally terrified and in simple awe of my best friend. He sounds lackluster and hollow, however, and slightly terrified, whenever he speaks of Schlatt, which was understandable. That man was one of several topics that both myself and my family had blacklisted from normal conversation, for Tubbo’s sake, really. When he was a little boy, if we even mentioned his father, he would hide from us from the rest of the day, and then we just… stopped bringing it up. Some things are better left silent, for everyone’s sake, really. If family had taught me anything, it was the quiet necessity to keep others safe through remaining quiet. I couldn’t imagine being him, and working for the man. I just couldn’t, and for personal reasons, I wasn’t going to try, because it makes me more furious than I am mentally comfortable with being at this moment.</p><p>“Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind. I promise I won’t ruin it, I just have an idea I want to pitch to you that you will probably laugh at, and it’s okay if you do, but-” I say, clearing my throat and trying to pretend the TV static of unease is creeping up my spine and driving little spikes into my back, are just a trick, struggling to keep my voice straight-lined and as playful and genuine as I can get it, even though I can’t help but want too simply  round house kick Schlatt in the jaw. For, quite literally, the thousandth time in my life.</p><p>“Tommy, I know you’re not going to ruin it, you don’t have to assure me that you won’t, I believe you, man. Here, lemme get it for you.” He says, words sliding through me like a molten knife, and taking me of balance, but I still nod, watching as he unceremoniously digs through his jacket pocket, arm twisted in a way I do not think my joints like watching, before he grins, and takes out a folded, green square, just the hint of a embroidered, golden ‘T’, stitched into the corner of the fabric as if it’s made of porcelain, and grips it in his hand protectively, and I can’t help but smile.</p><p>“Okay, so, my idea was, that… I don’t know, it might be stupid, and it’s okay if it is, but I wanted to exchange them? Even just for the time being so I… so I have something of yours in case something happens, and you have something of mine? It was stupid, that was stupid, it’s okay, I don’t know why I said that, forget it, I-” I ramble, I’m cut off suddenly, by Tubbo, who smiles, and leans forward and wipes apparent tears away from cheeks with his thumb that I didn’t even know had fallen. His eyes resemble a geyser pool, awash in tranquility and calm, and I find myself halfheartedly returning his smile. He works at untying the bandana that hangs round my neck, squinting in silent frustration at the knot, before he finally gets it undone, and beams, pulling it away.</p><p>He moves to replace mine with his own fluidly, as if scared he’ll spook me, and he frowns in concentration as he ties a large, green square of old fabric with his name embroidered on it, along with a little, golden bee around my neck, tying it off and dropping his hands slowly when I take my own from his hand, smiling at him hesitantly. I bite at my lip, trying my very most to concentrate and tie the knot well and make sure the thing is done carefully, and not last minute or rushed, pulling my hands away and sighing. I watch as he picks up the knot I’d tied moments ago and grins, as if he had never been given something more special in his life, and I can’t help it when my heart soars, and right now, the world is beautiful. Even Eret’s ugly fucking penis tower shines with redemption, and for the first time tonight, I let myself smile. For reals this time, because this time, I had something, no, <em> someone </em>, to smile about.</p><p>“You are good at ideas, big man. Thank you.” He whispers to me, smiling so wide I can, unfortunately, see his back molars with resounding clarity, and probably would have said something or told a joke about it if I wasn’t just so bizarrely emotionally raw on this fine late and early morning of October, and was spending more energy keeping myself together, than being able to create a joke out of thin air, like was expected of me.</p><p>“You… you’re welcome. Thank <em> you </em>, Tubbo. Can I… would it be okay if I hugged you?” I whisper, wanting to fucking dissolve into the floor, when I hear that my voice sounded as if I was bout to cry again, which was honestly just wonderful, I want to go to fucking sleep, man. I have had just about enough to last me quite some time, keeping everything else and myself together… it’s making me want to take a nice, long nap that lasts a week and a half, but then again, sleep is when it all catches up to me, so… who knows whether I actually wanted to be near it or not.</p><p>“Of course it would. Come here. You’ll have to go back soon, okay? It’s almost sunrise.” He whispers, hugging me close to him, the last bit coming off reluctant, and even a bit sad, and I didn’t enjoy hearing him be sad, or the truth. I was content in letting this lie extend longer, but it appears, the time for being a child is waning, and the time to monitor the adult brothers is rearing its head, like has been expected.</p><p>“Yeah, whatever I know.” I huff back, sighing, and turning my head to get a better glimpse of our country, which in this light, looks smaller than our own selves, and it is strangely alienating from the moment, and I have to pull myself back down, tethering myself to the moment, and calling m brain names when I realize it was about to pull me under.</p><p>“You stay safe, okay? Don’t go being an idiot without me, okay?” He inquires, his voice sounding muffled, and I laugh, nodding.</p><p>“I won’t. Promise.” I say, through gilded laughter, which rings out into the summer breeze, and I have to resist the urge to flinch, especially as he pulls away from me, booping me on the nose again, yawning as I stand, stretching over my spine, and meeting his gaze.</p><p>“Okay. See you soon?” He asks, fear trickling into his features, and oh fucking god, this is going to hurt like a bitch, I want to fucking stab both my brother and Schlatt for causing this bullshit of a situation. I just want to count falling stars with my bestfriend on a sketchy van hammock, not deal with this shit. Ender, I need to sleep. </p><p>“Yeah. Definitely, Big Man.” I assure him, standing up from the bench and allowing myself to be carried, almost as if on auto pilot towards home. I sigh, letting myself slouch in exhaustion,  breathing labored and strangely tired, more so than I believed was the cause before I had to walk back to Pogtopia.</p><p>“Tommy?” His voice is quiet, and I barely catch it, but the sound of it stops me in my tracks, and I double take, my hand stopping me from moving as it wraps around a tree trunk, looking back at him expecting… I’m not sure, but something. </p><p>“Yeah, Tubbo?” I whisper back, yawning aggressively, and having to put more weight around the tree trunk so I don’t lose vision and accidentally collapse against said tree, which would be to embarrassing for my pride to handle, and then I very well would offer myself up to a silverfish hoard.</p><p>“I love you.” He says, and my entire being softens, a smile tugging at my lips, and I find myself beaming at him, hoping, even just in the back of my mind and the depths of my heart, that I am enough to be counted as his sun, because he deserves someone so perfect, not even the fucking moon can compare, and look at me getting all sappy, I might just maul myself if this keeps up, on an unrelated side note, the horizon is beginning to be discernible from the black void of L'Manberg Valley, signifying my time to go.</p><p>“I love you too. Stay safe with the wolves, okay? Don’t let them rip you to shreds.” I say, letting my voice still to a gentle calm like the bay beyond shell beach with the stupid little gnarled pine tree nestled inside a ocean rock that I fell out of trying to climb when I was about ten, winking at him, and making sure I made sure to remember to check in on him, because god, this kid is shit at self advocation. I mean, we both are, but I don’t really like acknowledging I have a problem, it’ll go away if I don’t pick at it and all that, you know?</p><p>“I won’t. You too, okay?” He calls back to me, grinning as I nod, winking at him, even though I know he probably does not see it in the partial darkness of the current hour.</p><p>“Yep. Will do. Bye, Tubbo.” I say, beaming at him and relishing his smile, before I sigh, and turn back to planning my stupid route through this stupid fucking forest.</p><p>“Bye.” I push away from the tree, and step into the fleeting darkness of the birch forest, plunging my hands into my cargo pant pockets, the morning chill finally gaining a steady bite that I have half a mind to curse out, and would, if it wasn’t as cold as it was, and I really just wanted to get home and try to get some sleep. The night was fading away, and fast, the rosy tendrils of dawn already dancing along the horizon, preparing for an event that seems to always come to fast for my liking, but what else did I expect, really? The forest, as always, is alive, the faint tittering of song bird blends harmoniously with the final trilling of crickets, the little things probably mourning the coming of day more than I am, which is saying a lot. Every moment of tonight that remained was another moment of solace, of peace, before I was thrown between the cacophonies and disastrous presences that are my brothers, planetary beings orbiting destruction, the give and take never ending, as their sun burns bright for neither, but impresses the favor of one. </p><p>I dodge an arrow, fleeing from a skeleton who had been aimlessly wandering towards me, the thing losing interest once I am far enough away, my shoulders dropping, and I exhale, relief coming off of me in waves that blow away in the steady morning breeze. I hear the faint sound of human life beginning to stir, of someone singing, from far away, and I smile, jumping from a boulder to a hill, cracking my neck and turning in the direction of the sun. I stop, allowing myself a moment of peace to just… watch as the world comes alive, the sparkle of the lake not even a shadow of what it is when the sun is completely, the creatures in the trees still all fast asleep save for some very excited birds, who are already chirping away madly, welcoming the sun in such a way it is almost endearing.  I laugh, just to myself, really, and pull my gaze away from the sky, bowing my head and trudging over the small bluff we’d disguised the roll-through entrance, keeping my eyes open for the gnarled birch tree, which I have to squint to see, climbing somewhat haphazardly down the hill, and skidding against another tree, just barely stopping myself from falling off the other side. I suppose my brain just sort of calls it a day, and autopilots me in the direction of home, only letting me to intervene to stop for a moment, turn back to the horizon, take a breath of fresh air, and then duck underneath the overhang, letting the darkness spill over me, and the whispers and hisses in the dark call me names, hand trailing against the wall as I stumble down the stairs. I’m not heading towards mythread-bare mattress that occupies a frigid corner of the room, because that’s where Wilbur is, and that drops a weight off my shoulders, lifting a coat off of a chest and falling against the corner, pulling the coat over me and tapping the wall with my hand, creating a slow melody that I do not get to hear the end of, as my eyes flutter closed, and gentle breathing succeeds in sending me off to a silent, blissful slumber, that for once, is not shattered by the poison of a nightmare, and even as the time ticks into late morning, and someone is yelling, I continue to dream of traversing the stars with a boy in a suit and a red bandana, hands linked, smiles synchronized, and it appears, I can create my own heaven in my own mind, and I smile, exhaling a breath and pulling the coat over my head, as all final sensations ebb away.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Hungover In Jonestown</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The hum of dread beginning to creep up my throat, and the alluring, sensual call of death and the taste of molten shrapnel filling my mind with a dulled, panicked static of a chase that is never to happen, but yet pursues my breath and stoppers it, clawing it to shreds and claiming it for its own.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello! hope all of y'all are doing well! the song for this chapter is 'hungover in jonestown', by amigo the devil. this chapter kind of focuses on the twins, and kind of wil's own personal narrative of family, and the exploration of another dynamic that is one of my favorites. also, i finally edited this in a reasonable time frame, instead of days later when i remember, lmao! but, anyways, this chapter was a right joy to write, and i hope you guys enjoy! </p><p>cw: (there is a fair amount of these for this chapter, because c!wilbur is just, unfortunately, this way, and needs a hug.) mentions of bl*od throughout text. idealization of de*th, only hinted upon, and not drawn out for extremely, ridiculously long. an explicitly described mention of a p*nic attack, and light mentions of the same throughout text. vague mentions of being under the influence/hungover. mentions and descriptions of loss and gr*ef. loose references/mentions of k*dnapping. y*lling and mentions of self h*tred.<br/>again, c!wilbur needs a fucking hug.</p><p>(fyi, c!wilbur means in reference to his character, in which this work is written about, and is in no reference to the cc, as is this work overall, with each of the characters i write about. furthermore, my goal is to write a good story, and keep those reading as safe from any material i choose to feature, as i can, hence the cw's.) enjoy, and thank you so incredibly much for the read!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>ACT I: The Deceit of Achilles</p><p>WILBUR</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>From the moment I open my eyes, my head and body begin to ache in a brisk, inescapable primordial pain, a pain that trickles into my blood stream, and spreads into every bone in my body. Enraging me to a point where I curl up against the cold stone of the cavern, body trembling as a wave of nausea hits me. I scowl, and wrap my arm around my gut, curling around it and pulling the threadbare blanket over my head. I groan as another wave of just… perpetual, mortal discomfort overwhelms me, and I keen over into the wall, smacking my head so roughly, it makes me curse and groan, my vision fizzling out as if I’d just stood up too fast. The hum of dread beginning to creep up my throat, and the alluring, sensual call of death and the taste of molten shrapnel filling my mind with a dulled, panicked static of a chase that is never to happen, but yet pursues my breath and stoppers it, clawing it to shreds and claiming it for its own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I roll my eyes open, sighing heavily, and drumming my fingers against the mattress. I stare, drowsily enough for it to merit as something dreadfully lifeless, up at the ceiling, squinting as I try my very best to remember the events of yesterday, which proves to be a much more difficult task than I thought going into it, my brain feeling all fuzzy. The action of trying to remember nearly unbearable save for the satisfaction of the steady trickle of the words and behavior of yesterday, that hits me like a ghostly truck, as it was there… but not completely. I know I’d left Pogtopia that morning at around the same time as Tommy, which fizzled out into… how exactly my day ended, causing me to frown suddenly at the stone ceiling, under the realization that those memories seem to still evade me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I was pretending to be going on some errand or diplomacy, or whatever the fuck it was that I’d claimed to Techno, who’d cornered me in the kitchen, and I know whatever it was, was enough to make me mad, that’s for sure. But I don’t remember the exact thing, so I guess it is not something that matters in this instance. I know I found my liquor stash I’d kept away from Tommy’s knowledge and child eyes that seem to find </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>, no matter how much I tried to prevent that. I remember… I don’t know, very loud yelling, it gets fuzzy for a bit there, and then Tommy came to get me, I know that for sure, because I remember disappointment. By then, I was already off my rocker, and was probably a bitch to get back to Pogtopia, but he had managed it. I also remembered the ferns. The ferns stood out. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Vividly</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I know he got me back here in one piece, which was worth a congratulations, I know how fucking awful I am to deal with when I’m like that, kid deserved some credit, and then… there’s whatever happened when I arrived home, which makes me huff, and bring my hands over my eyes, angry at more myself than anybody here, but the anger wasn’t just stupid. I’d hinted at what I was going to do. They knew. They fucking knew, all because my dumbass got myself drunk and lost control enough to say that shit… End, I am just the worst. If they took that seriously… which Niki will, I will be so fucked. I am so fucked. Ender, way to go making deals with devils. This is shit, and I want out. I need to find a way out, but the walls are closing in, and yet so am I, in on my body, my mind, feeling them constrict my heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I was eight and three months old when the walls first caved in on me. The painful tinge of a broken ankle from when I had lept from the tree, desperate to catch up to my brother, voice empty and jagged due to how worn it was from the minutes spent screaming, clawing at the ground, yelling for my brother, who had been pulled underground, and I was far too late to even attempt to save. Our parents didn’t come looking for us until I had been on my own for ten minutes. By that point, I was frantic. Devastated, torn by something that felt like the loss of half my own heart; as if someone had just reached in and cut it from me. Blood roars in my ears ceaselessly, and a heavy paranoia ebbing into my bones, and making it feel like a dull, lagged tingle. I’d backed myself against a tree, and collapsed to the ground, where I’d remained in silent horror, nails tearing through my pants, and breaking skin, drawing blood that caked under my nails, and my mother had to gentle scrub out before putting me to bed. I remember hearing screams, and broken sobs, as I was forced to watch him get taken over and over again, like a broken record, until my parents solidify in front of me, my mother taking my hands away from scratching away at my legs, cupping my face as she tries and gets me to take a breath, mouth mouthing, but I can’t hear anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My father was behind her, I knew that well enough, sword brandished high, searching the clearing desperately for my brother, someone who, even in that state, he couldn’t find. I remember a static, just grey, and the feeling of warmth and the sight of my brother’s smile, which cut away into the sight of his fear, before the earth closed up and he was taken from me, just like Persephone was by Hades in his beloved stories. Stories I would never hear him tell again, and after that cheery thought I remember screaming, wailing in a pain I cannot bear to describe. I remember the steady rush of being picked up by my mother, her arms wrapping around me, holding me close to her as her wings descend down upon us, barring the world from my gaze. She’s saying my name, and other words that I can’t seem to catch, but even with her keeping everything from me, it still closes in on me, and I can’t breathe, barely even see, really, and slowly, I remember feeling consciousness drip away, collapsing into my mum’s arms, not to wake up until the next morning, when it would happen again, and again, and each time I woke up to the revelation my brother was gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Losing my twin, or even the fear that I had temporarily, was the most painful thing I’ve ever felt. Even worse than when I lost my mother, or even my wife, not like grief is a competition, maybe I had just grown used to it by then, but it stung in a frequency that was nothing close to the numbness I’d felt after the loss of both of them. Loss was a song my family was comfortable in singing in harmony, more so than love, even though they were far too dense to admit it. The loss of my brother was temporary, which I did not even realize until about a week later, when I could just… I don’t know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>tell</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that he wasn’t dead, and I just sort of announced to my two very frazzled, uncertain, and emotionally exhausted parents at breakfast after I had calmed down from a right bitch of a panic attack spanning a week, that what happened to my brother was a disappearance, instead of a death, and since he was alive, we needed to go look for him.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know if they believed me, but that didn’t mean that we didn’t spend hours searching everywhere for him, for almost six fucking  months, before… one day, my Mum gave up. I don’t blame her, six months is a long time to search for someone, especially a missing kid, and to be honest, at that point I think we all were staring to think he was dead, especially after six months of finding nothing. I know now that it, for sure, it would have shattered me into pieces if I had to do that for my own little boy, or Tommy, or Tubbo, so, even then, I brushed it off. I understood why she made that choice, and even now, whenever me and Tech would talk about it afterwards, which was oh so incredibly rare, nowadays, but when we did, we agreed that she had done all she could, and Techno had even told me that if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>dead, he would want us to move on, because he did not blame her for any of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nobody ever talks about the silence after tragedy. How its deafening, how it isn’t just a thing, anymore, it’s an existence, it’s dulling, and hesitant, and seems to dull the steady anticipation that drips from the rafters like a bloody nose that someone has just let drip into the sink and run down the drain. It is a whole new feeling, like anticipation for something to happen, although nothing happens. It’s just silence, and staticky, like a snowy television screen at midnight, glitching slightly and shrieking out into the room. It was the calm after the storm, and it raged more than the storm ever could. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone’s in front of me when I open my eyes, and their voice is gentle, and her hair like storm clouds, grey and white, like a beautiful opaline day. Her voice speaks of things that reminds me I’m here, it’s September 26th, a few days away from October. Of the fact that I’m, thank whoever the fuck cares, not eight anymore, I’m twenty-six, and everything that happened is in the past, and I don’t need to be terrified of past things that have already resolved themselves. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Worry about the present, Wil. I can’t do shit about the past, but I can change whatever nonsense happens now. I have too.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>She’s surprisingly gentle, and oddly kind, and, thank god, doesn’t flinch when I wrap my arms around her and fall against her, my body heaving, and I choke on my breath, serrated sobs escaping my throat. This whole thing makes my head ache, and my ribs feel like they are being splintered, individually, and pulled apart by a tiger. But I don’t mind it, the pain is somewhat grounding through the static, and I cling to it, keeping it close to me, as if is the only thing that remains tethering me to the world of the living, along with a far-away voice of a girl with blue eyes, and a quiet, gentle soprano that coaxes me back, the static floating away into oblivion with the sound of her voice. She is just talking, not about anything besides several obscure topics that my mind has yet to settle down from that emotional turmoil that mimics the tune of the flight of the bumblebee, for me to be able to understand. My heart beat still echoing in my mind, like a clock, ticking down time until it reaches zero.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Things come back with the tide, sort of uncontrollably, really, just like the ocean would like, and whether I want it to or not. I could do without being so terrified all the time. But, I have been alive for just a bit, and I am well used to a standard amount of panic, and rage, and terror. That’s just normal. It’s normal to be afraid, the more morbid the emotion, the longer we remain human, but in this situation, with no clear end to any of this, as I take my first, real, steady breath, the thoughts that comfort me are what got us here in the first place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even though they were then just held in another’s mind, these are the thoughts and musings that populate my own, and they are that of flames, and the spilling of blood, and the glee as someone’s entire world is ripped away like a page in an old composition book from the past your mentality once depended on, and now, couldn’t give less of a shit about, that you to vandalize to make room or whatever next creation I have planned, no matter how much that seems to go up in flames for me every time I seem to manage it. Which is so very </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m present enough to function, now, thank the gods. The world already having flooded back to me like the tide after a tsunami, barely even giving me the time to catch my breath and adjust. It’s... calmer, and so much easier to settle in without my glasses, which, when I think about it, I have absolutely no idea where those things even went, I don’t remember having them on me when Techno put me to bed last night, but maybe the world is easier to tolerate this way, so… I guess it’s a win-win. I can see Niki, however, with resounding clarity, and apparently, I’m resting my head on her shoulder. Her arm is wrapped around my side, holding me close to her, her grip still infallible, just like when we’d curl up together as kids, the three of us, me, Techno, and Niki, watching the stars in silence. Her other is clasped, tightly, around mine, her engagement ring, however blurred, still holds its gossamer shine, and I run my finger against the band, remembering the moment she’d shown me it with the biggest damn smile on her face, as if it was yesterday. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, you. You okay? Are you with me, Wil?” She breathes, her voice quiet, yet astoundingly gentle and blaise, and it reminded me how she used to speak to my son when she’d talk to him from his crib, which was… somehow endearing, and I found it making me laugh, smiling for the first time in what feels like far too long, but it’s nice, and tastes like apricot pastries and the several nights I’d spent making spaghetti sauce for my little boy, back when pasta was all he ate, which was a very long four months.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah. I’m here. Did you know, Niki, how blue your eyes are?  They’re like… hmm, I don’t know, like blue jays, and the sky.” I say, yawning very aggressively loudly, and sounding as if I’m having some sort of, I don’t know, exorcism, as I stretch out the rivets in my body, leaning back against Niki, and taking  deep, steady breath as to not set off the various aches and pains that being hungover as all shit just seemed to bring out. It was like some sort of irritable magnet brought on by alcohol and the fiery wave of self hatred that set my entire throat aflame, like the wildfires that would burn the hills when we were children. The things raging miles to the north of Seabury Cottage in the summers, and would set the skies to an ashy grey, and the seas would be lit in oranges and reds, compatriots to flame, and yes, those who called the Seabury Coast home,  held fear of the fire, for that is the way Nethere designed it to be. But as I grew older, I learned it is far more prudent to befriend the flame, then to let it slaughter you blind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “Hey, Wil. No, I didn’t know that. Thank you for telling me.” She says, sounding fascinated, and joyous at the fact that I am awake, her eyes glowing with a amount of unfathomable pride that calms me to my bones. Techno is prone to comparing her to spring itself, and how her smile was like the sun that would melt a March frost, and Ender, my brother has never been more correct. She was just… I don’t know what you want from me today in the metaphor department, honestly. I am hungover as all shit. Just know her whole presence to me is like the feeling of singing to my little boy when he was so very little, the moment I’d cried when I heard we had been granted independence, and also ice cold strawberry lemonade and how walking through the White House’s fruit tree orchard feels like in the early mornings of L’Manberg valley, the air feeling like golden, gossamer rays of honey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are so very welcome. I’ll be here indefinitely. I got exiled, you know. I’m just that cool.” I say, finding jokes coming more easy about this whole shit storm with her, even though my brain flares up in protest at the words. Knowing that, </span>
  <em>
    <span>indefinitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>was definitely not at all the case, and it better not have been. But the fact that it could be, terrified me so much, that even that, cut through the buzz of lingering alcohol that still lurks in my system. But even then, her presence is like the sunrise from home, and it tastes of s’mores, and mulled wine, and better times. Like the nights after we’d won our independence, where I felt like I could sing for days, and would spin her around, and catch her by her waist as the moon hung high above us, the skirt of her dress clasped in her hand, and flitting out while I twirled her, our laughter giddy, and the moment perfect. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are very cool, this is true.” She says, nodding, and grinning at me as she chuckles, yawning and leaning her head on mine, all of a sudden how tired she really is, seems to be accentuated, and even exhausted, I am beyond glad she is trying to make me happy, even though she’s been like that since we were kids. Always lending a smile, always cheering us up. She’d wander all over with us, just making a right fool out of herself just so she could catch us smile. The cool thing is, she’s never changed. Not really. But, oh, what a sad day it will be when she does leave that part of her behind. I do not believe the world will ever be the same, nor that the leaves will ever fully replenish to that iridescent shine of newly made spring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, Niki? What time is it… do you know?” I whisper to her, silently, and barely even loud enough to surpass a whisper, but she hears me, and her hand begins to trifle through my hair, gently tugging through a curl that had tangled into my signature corkscrew curls that loop around the edges of my beanie just a bit too much, she tsks quietly, her frown softening as the knot slowly comes unravelled, her eyes and gentle fingers moving on to the next, and beginning the process again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t really know, Wil. You need me to go check?” She whispers back. It’s nice, keeping things quiet, sometimes. I shrug, a hint of a smile dappled across my face, which fades as my brain fumbles for cognitive thinking through the mess of alcohol, to place a context to the situation, and all of a sudden, I know, full well, why she’s in here with me, and I can’t help but sigh, my shoulders slumping in defeat, anger flaring up in the pit of my stomach, as my teeth grit together. I truly cannot believe myself. I am such a fucking idiot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s alright. I’ll find out later. Niki, not to dampen the mood, please don’t get sad, I am hungover, and there is nothing stopping me from just… I don’t know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sobbing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but… I was...  I was screaming. Wasn’t I? That’s why you came in here.” I say, trailing off, humor dissipating from my tone, like water evaporating off of pavement in the middle of a desert in the heat of the day. I can tell immediately by the way her breathing stops its regularity for a moment, proves my initial fear about this whole thing was very correct, which meant that I was, very much fucked, because what the fuck did I even say to that? I know what the fucking anxiety nightmare thing was about, it was my anxiety nightmare, y’know? However, I had zero idea what I’d yelled out, and that could be severely terrible, the sheer terror of every possibility scratching its way through my chest, and enveloping my thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Yeah, you were.” She breathes, voice quiet. I force myself to take a breath, trying my very most to remember to breathe so I don’t fucking pass out in the middle of this very uncomfortable conversation that I wish I never even started, but here we are. I am just the king of not being able to make good decisions, or realize that choices have consequences. Even though I’ve felt the shockwave of the aftermath of making those choices several times over, that lesson never really seems to… </span>
  <em>
    <span>stick</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you could say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, what was I saying?” I ask, forcing my voice to render back to emotionless and direct, hollow, almost, and… kind of ugly, in a dishonest sort of way that makes my stomach bubble in anxious disgust.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will, I don’t-” She starts, gently, her voice sounding light, and understanding, which throws me for a bit of a uncertain loop that makes me feel nauseous and queasy. Slightly disheartened by the seed of dishonesty, that seemed to be growing its way through my body, sending shoots through my organs, and having putrid-smelling flowers budding to life around my ribs and hips. It had rooted itself to me, and would go nowhere until the both it and me were dead, sapping the energy and focus to anything put the fear of the present.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Niki. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I know the plot of my bullshit little anxiety nightmare full well, and am fine with it being my own knowledge, but I need to know what I let slip.” I say it as if it’s a request, all polite and shit, and maybe that was genuine. But for the moment I know I’m overcompensating, because right now I am morbidly terrified, and I very much want to dissolve into the floor and suffocate underground, which sounds very tempting, and I would take it over today in a literal heartbeat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure?” She asks, tone remaining ceaselessly gentle, like an evening breeze, which is a stark contrast to the mental gymnastics my brain is doing to try and figure out my next step, to figure out what lies I would have to conjure out of fucking nowhere to keep my repuation afloat so I didn’t walk into the kitchen for toast, and not be able to walk out until a two hour intervention and probably a lot of yelling. Which, honestly? I simply just did not have the time for, because the way this is supposed to work, okay? The way I planned this whole thing out, was that my mental state does not really matter all that much, because I said it doesn’t, and I shouldn’t have to prove that because I don’t want too. And regarding the whole ‘baby government’ that had turned flipside and failed, situation I had on my hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A part of my plan, was joining it’s demise in my own death. So why fix something that already has an expiration date, it just does not make any sense. It may to others, but dying feels like a personal choice again, and I’ve missed that control, the off and on switch always lingering, always waiting for a time to be impulsive and do something irreversible. I hadn’t thought like this in years, and yet it returning was joyously liberating, in a morbidly pleasing sort of way. As my mother used to say misery needs company, even if that company is listening to my lies, it is still somewhat valid, I hope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I’m sure. Whatever the hell it is, I’m sure it’s not that bad.” I say, forcing a rather strange combination of both my parent smile, and the presidential one, which usually did the trick in disguising my emotions with strangers, but since Niki and I are much closer than the average presidential aid or a random parent who is trying to start something with me, who knows if she’ll see through it or not. Maybe she’ll be nice and give me the benefit of the doubt because I am grossly hungover, who knows, the universe never fails to fucking surprise me. </span>
  <em>
    <span>God, do I need a cigarette</span>
  </em>
</p><p><span>“You, um… you were yelling for your parents, your mom, specifically, I think, and you sounded hysterical, like someone was hurt, and I ran in here to make sure you were alright, and before I was allowed anywhere near you, you made me promise no one had been taken.” As she speaks, she takes careful breaths, and I can tell, she is doing all she can to avoid the possibility of accidentally looking at me, which would be understandably embarrassing for both parties, but mostly me, and at first, I was upset about it a fine crimson lining of fury coating my thoughts. Until it dissipates, chased away by the understanding that she is refusing eye contact for my own sake. Not, in fact, that she all of a sudden wanted nothing to do with me due to varying personal reasons. In other matters, the context of what I was saying was definitely the worst possible option ever, and I hated it, none of that was good. I couldn’t even make excuses about any of it either, or dampen the painful twinge in the pit of my stomach with a lie, because drunk words are sober thoughts, you know. And besides, she is smart enough to not believe that, she’d only been putting up with me for nearly twenty-three fucking years, she could recognize my bullshit.</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“Oh. That’s… pretty bad, actually, the world loves proving me wrong, love that for her, anyway… desperately changing the subject, do you know where my glasses are? I can’t find them. I don’t have them, and it would be a real bitch if I’d lost them, because I currently cannot see.” I say, trying to pass it off as calm, even though it very much is not. The desperation to stop talking about this is making my heart hurt and have me be able to feel almost every individual rib in my body. The dread-laden realization roaring in a bout of flaming discomfort and an awkward, uncomfortable, pain that seemed to flow through my whole body, like an angry flash flood.</span></p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t lose them, love. Techno’s watching over them for you. I’ll go get them from him for you in a bit, alright?” I allow myself a breath, nodding and trying my best to relax back into her shoulder, content in the fact that I had not accidentally got them broken, or left them in a bushel of ferns somewhere obscure. That small blight of panic leaves me in a cloud, and I continue to breathe, not allowing myself to freak out, or have a breakdown, because I’m supposed to be on my best behavior. People stay that way, and besides, it’s my job to keep Niki and my boys safe through this and everything else, just like it’s always been. I have to keep doing that, for if I don’t, what am I worth? What have I contributed? I must give to them, in order for them to have something to take, and I do not mind the take. The take means I am wanted, and loved, and needed, and that’s all I need. As long as they are safe from harm’s way, I can pull the stars from the skies, uproot the trees themselves, set fire to the oceans, and cause the flowers to wither. I can bring down hell, as long as those I love and need to keep safe are away from it, and I can keep them out of the crossfire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, that’s good, then. Thank you.” I whisper, the words just barely audible, as a giddy smile makes my cheeks ache, blushing red at the whole finality of it all. I was never one to swoon at the gaze of others, which is a lie. With Sally, that is really all it took, but even then, I am not one to swoon at the bite of destruction, or… I wasn’t, but things change. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time is not always a flat circle, it is like our tenth planet, invisible and mysterious, drifting in Pluto’s horizon, as one magnificent thing, untouchable… yet so appallingly real. I think the biggest let down was demoting poor, magnificent Pluto to nothing but a dwarf planet, so much so that’s he is not even valued the same as those around him, demoted and shunned for being icy, and far away, as if his namesake is not the god of death, himself. Pluto may be considered meaningless, and compared to literal space rocks, but he remains to be the coolest planet I have ever heard of. Multi-faceted and gorgeous, chaotic, yet orderly. He is perfect, even if he is too far away from us for me to even fathom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright, Will? You seem… I don’t know, shaken.” Her voice stirs me out of my stupor, and am pulled from musings of the planetary Ice Child, and forced back into the world of the living, finding myself chuckling at the amusement and obliviousness of her statement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not sure that I know how to define what I am feeling right this second, Niki. I have never been good at feelings, you know that.” I reply with a smile, focusing on my voice to make sure it sounds like smooth honey and fall mornings, and not the icy and terribly jagged cliff sides that mimic the broken necks of whiskey bottles, the curved, cruel, dwindling fuse of a lit explosive, and the chill that freezes even the most rotten of plants that have wrapped themselves around a ribcage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Apparently, I am getting better at pretending, because she does not react how she would if she had sensed the lie, and it eases my nerves, stale confidence watering the poison growing inside me, fueling me to commit this act of dishonesty, because now that the conviction to lie has been settled, why go back? This is so much more fun. Let them pursue my half truths like prey, because after I am gone, they will have to piece together a why, and it will be oh so amusing to determine what the hell that will even be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do, love. I’ve known that for years. But in your credit, feelings aren’t always so easy, so I understand how hard dealing with all of that is. But, you have to be aware of the damage it does to one’s psyche keeping these things locked away, correct? They might be scary for the both of us, and that’s okay, but at the end of the day, you’re one of my closest friends, have been for a while now, and I’m here to help you. I’m here to make sure there’s someone to keep you safe, buddy, and since you seem to forget that you deserve someone like that in your life, I’ll help with that, if you’ll have me.” Her words scare me, I will be honest. She is so truly lovely, and I know this is said with the utmost sincerity, but I cannot help it when her words sting, because help is an alien concept, even though I am not a stranger to the offer. But it feels like I am. Especially when I cannot do anything for her, which makes it feels wrong. Why should she help me if I have nothing to give her? Why should I allow her to do this when I know full well how this will end, and she will just wind up hurt? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If I am the one to ruin her, I will rather I am split apart intimately and personally by every cruel thing in this universe, which I believe is a punishment to befit the destruction of the mortal incarnation of Persephone, the immortal lady of spring, herself. I deserved whatever is worse than hell if I did that to her, and I will beg for it when it comes to it, so help me, Ender.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Niki, no. I love having you with me, more than you can ever know, but, you have to listen to me. Please, do not get yourself involved in this-” I beg, turning around to face her, eyes frantic although I try and hide my emotions, fighting myself over what will do more damage, allowing her to understand that this was important, or remaining blank, I don’t know. But whatever happened, I can see the shift in her as anger floods the blue and gold ringlets around black pupils, and she meets with a side glance fit of an opponent on a battlefield, which I suppose emotional conversations are, to a point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The fuck do you mean, ‘don’t get involved? It’s you, Wilbur! The ‘this’ we’re speaking about isn’t some toxic relationship or economic dispute, it’s about </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>! Why do you not want me involved if I am just trying to keep you safe and alive, huh? What’s so bad about me just trying to keep someone I love alive?” She demands, the sheer volume of her words and the tone so abrasive it makes me jump and wince, digging my nails into my knee, regaining my composure through my own anger, which, somehow, I suppose I can thank for saving my ass in this moment, Quite a wonderful paradox, really, the thing pulling through a flimsy, half-thought. She was wrong. She could not do that, and I knew that, because I had already condemned myself the moment I made a deity a promise, and there was no way I was allowed to return to how it was before, no matter what Niki, or anyone else, did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Niki</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Please listen to me. I don’t know how this is going to end. I don’t. I can’t pretend like I do, and I never did. I never guessed we were going to end up here, I didn’t know that that would happen at the election. And yet, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I am more than fine with having you involved with this, and even if I wasn’t, I am full aware the power to stop you is not one I possess, and it never was to begin with. But, please. If it ends in flame, know it was my hand who lit the match, not yours. Do not blame yourself for my actions while you’re trying to protect me, because, I’ve changed, and the things I will do to win my home back, are nothing but extreme.” I muster, turning to look at her, forcing myself to remain diplomatic, because screaming at her would get me nowhere but disciplined and ignored for the rest of the day, and my argument makes perfect sense. You don’t save a condemned building from being destroyed, you simply watch it be destroyed, saving it would be counter productive. It was like that, but I couldn’t say a word on that, because I would never be allowed to be alone for a single cursed moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She, unfortunately, does not seem swayed, and she grits her teeth, scowling at me as if she didn’t know if she wanted to strangle me, or give me a hug, but whatever it was, she was very frustrated, and that was obviously directed at yours truly, which is understandable. I am a horrible person to try to read, my parents didn’t teach me to show emotion because we were too involved with the whole, ‘when I was eight, my twin brother got kidnapped’,  so that made us all terribly emotionally stunted, and that emotion blank works perfectly fine as physical protection. But definitely not mentally, trust me on that, if I had to compare my mental state to anything, it would be Jackson Polluck’s, No. 5, 1948, which isn’t exactly the easiest to analyze, either. She’s frowning at me, clearly displeased, and I want nothing more than to wither and rot into nothing but dirt just to never have to be the cause of her disappointment ever again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If it ends in flame, I will chastise myself for not seeing the signs sooner and taking steps to prevent them, but so be it. I will not throw in your name into my own weight of blame, if you do not want it there. But, I know full well what the backlash of war is, Wilbur. I know the backlash of revolution. Yours, to be specific, as I have felt the consequences of that before, and I intend to be here to feel it again, because the last one didn’t kill me, and I don’t think this one has the guts to finish the job. You said you do not have the ability to control me, and this is very true, but you have forgotten the very nature of man is control, and ultimately, no matter how many bridges we burn or countries we put to rest, we will never escape that. So, if it this whole scheme of yours, does, in fact, end with the world aflame, I will feel pain of your fire ten fold, because I am a warrior, not a coward who hides behind men and allows them to do her bidding for them. Do not forget who my mother is, and the heritage she passed down to me, Wilbur. If there is a consequence, so be it, I have already served my time.” She speaks with fire, one matching those I have only really imagined, but it is enthralling, and she speaks with an undeniable conviction, and I know she’s trying to connect with me, and if I only knew an easier way to get her to realize I understand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>We aren’t children anymore, I know that well enough, even though the thought burns at my flesh, I am fully aware of it. I understand her. I know she’s right, she always has been, she is taking my own rigidness, and using it to get at me, and it’s working. I do not blame her for a moment of it, for if our roles were switched, I would do the exact same, even though some of what she says is still childish and painfully naive for a warrior as seasoned as she is. I clear my throat and turn to face her, taking her face gently in my hands, and smiling at her, watching whole worlds and galaxies spiral past in the wealth of her eyes, the sight breath taking and just… </span>
  <em>
    <span>stunning</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you are content in shouldering my issues, Niki. I have always seen it. I saw it when I temporarily lost my brother, and then, subsequently, like a bitch of a fucking domino effect, I had to go through the death of my mother, and then years later when I lost… when I lost Sally. You have been there for three significant moments of loss for me, and through all of them, no matter how erratic my behavior, you have always tried to shoulder my pain and take it away, like its something defeatable, slayable, even, like we’re on a battlefield, when in reality, we are not. Pain is what keeps us human, it is a morbid thought, yes, but it is true. You said man’s very nature is destruction, you weren’t wrong. I feel like I have been deprived of it for the role of president, something that was necessary, yes, but it was deprived, none the less, and having that pulled away… it’s jarring. Freeing, almost, you could say, but that is not the point, listen to me, please, I beg you: I do not care if you blame me for things I caused. That blame is just if I have caused pain in the ones I promised tranquility. For you to live in denial of my own corrupt actions, would be disservice to those that I have wronged. Listen, if you put denial in favor of trust, you are simply living one of the several hundreds of reasons as to why we are here in the first place. I know what I did. You don’t need to make excuses for me, I’m a grown ass man. I know how to pay back my wrongs. I am my mother’s son, after all. The lady who charmed the angel of death. I know full well the tongue of righting your wrongs, I strive to be as fluent in it as she was, and this has… opened my eyes, you could say.” My words, I realize, have become like a frostbite, and as I drop my hands from her cheeks, I see the unease biting away at her mind, and the careless, beautiful shimmer of her eyes, losing some of their lustre, choosing to stare at me, unblinkingly, as my words wash over her. I cannot say I apologise for them, because no matter how scalding and frigid they can be, I cannot apologize for the truth. I cannot ask her to carry guilt or denial for my own shitty mistakes, that isn’t fair. Keeping a friend safe is one thing, and answering and apologizing for their shit is another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To what, Will?” She whispers back to me quietly, sounding uncertain, a strange sort of worry gnawing at her tone, flatlining it from it’s usual light soprano, that reminds me of spring wind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To death. To life. To the realization that so many things can be in my control again, I just have to do…. </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>, first. You’ll never learn to go underwater if you don’t take a risk, you know? You will never be able to light a candle on your own without getting over that fear. I want to give them a little push. Just a little push, so things get set right, quickly. And without delay, and before long, our revolution will be one. It’s that simple, Niki. You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’ve always been fine, you know that.” I say, nodding, and trying to hold myself together, even when her face falls to one of mourning, her fingers skimming my arm in alarm, and I feel like she’s beginning to understand, even subconsciously what’s going to happen, but her eyes still remain gentle, calm, quiet and as azure blue as usual, as if we had both begun the same charade of normality, both for the sake of the other, even though I don’t think we will every admit it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is the details behind the action of this ‘little push’? What do you intend to do to start that off?” She whispers, her voice sad, and a bit faded, to a point where I cannot even choose to ignore it, even if I really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>wanted too. But, it was a fucking question, and to have her remain oblivious, which I think she was, by choice, she’s too smart to not catch on, and she’s literally married to a fucking therapist, I cannot hide shit from her ever, and never have been, but for now… she was choosing to play into my little game, for whatever reason, and I had no choice but to be thankful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have not yet decided. I have options, but I’m weighing them out.” I murmur, playing with the hem of my stained to shit, button down. The thing still stained, with both potato stew and blood, which was a rather funny combination, if you thought hard enough about who it pertained too. She raises an eyebrow at me, grabbing my wrist, and pulling my nails away from my knee, enclosing my hand in hers instead, and continuing on with her day, even though, at this very moment, she looks more alarmed than she did before, even though she’s doing a good job at keeping it somewhat toned down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold on, what are your options, Wilbur?” She says, sounding stressed, and worried, and apparently she is not good at emotional repression, which is good, because I know full well how unhealthy that is. But it also means I can see right through her, as if she was a ghost, and can tell that if she wasn’t worried for me before, she sure as hell is now, but… that worry does not concern me, and it’s better to not address. To just brush over. She can worry about me later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will let you know when I am finished weighing them out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, please, I need to get ready and get my glasses from my brother.” I say, as I grin, hug her, and, as a solidifying farewell, kiss her gently on the cheek, beaming at her as she helps me up, and I do the same, pulling her to her feet, and making sure to catch my expression and keeping it from turning sour as she stands in front of me, a gentle, half smile returning to her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Yeah, sure. I’ll see you in the kitchen.”  She replies, nodding, and beaming back at me, nodding silently, and sighing as she wrings her hands. Nervously cracking her knuckles, and calming her breathing in the way that everyone who has lived with Niki’s wife, Puffy, for longer than three days, has seemed to catch on too. Even their boys did it on the off occasion when they were very small, the both of them I haven’t seen since they were both very little, so I wouldn’t know, but it is still very amusing to see. Even if I don’t like the context in which she’s doing it now, which was forced by my hand, but regardless, I still catch myself smiling, and almost get knocked off my feet as she tackles me in another hug, hugging right back, the both of us remaining in the embrace for what feels like forever, her fingers idly drumming against the back of my shoulder. The pattern is relaxing, and I allow myself to breathe, my mind clearing enough to consider something, doing it before I’ve even weighed it out, which was, again, to blame on the hangover.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Niki?” I whisper to her, keeping my eyes locked on the dark stone behind her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” She whispers back, her voice catching in the space between her whispers, the lag making me smile, and take a breath, fully trying to remember what exactly I’d gotten her attention for in the first place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you so much for coming in to help me. You didn’t have to do that, but you did, and it means the world. Thank you.” I whisper, silence overtaking the room, before she pulls away, beaming, and holds my face with her hands, staring at me as if I am the moon, or a constellation, and I know it’s making me blush, and thank god, she does not bring it up, but her smile is enough to cut the ties of an entire ferry of molten hot anxiety. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so very welcome, Will. And if you would please shut up and quit acting as if I am a random stranger, you’re my best friend. it’s my job to make sure you’re okay, and besides, it’s no trouble, honestly. I’ll be here for you whenever you need me, okay?” She says, smiling, and booping me on the nose with her thumb, her eyes as warm as chamomile tea, and dry beach sand that gathers towards the almond trees far above the shoreline, or even the mark of high tide. Whatever worry she had, she’s internalized, waiting to corner me about it later, and I have never been more relieved for something in my entire life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” I say, nodding, as she drops her hands from my cheeks, and kisses me on the forehead, pulling away and smiling so wide I’m sure I’ll combust, before she winks and leans over to me, eyes sparkling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, meet me in the kitchen for toast relatively soon, alright?” She whispers, pulling away and nodding, making her way out of our little war time cot area, and to the oasis that is the kitchen and the beautiful prospect of strong coffee, and Tommy’s perfectly done toast that he prides himself in, which makes complete sense, I would go to war for that boy’s toast, I swear on Ende, herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep. Alright. Thank you. See you soon.” I whisper, smiling until I watch her turn the corner, the moment she disappears, I fall against the wall, sighing, and tightening my hand around the bundle of blankets, a puddle of guilt and shame beginning to fill in the bottom of my chest, tears I had barely been able to keep down threatening to spill over, the feeling of charred skin akin to that of all of the hastily-constructed lies that burn at my seams. Threatening a messy unravelling that I force to settle in the back of my throat, hacking sobs becoming buried, and instead I begin to grip at my knees and clothes and rock back and forth, terror sinking into me. I had lied to her. I had lied to my Persephone. And I deserved nothing but the very worst for it, and oh, it would come my way, in the form of being pulled to hell, itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My boots feel like they’ve constricted overnight, or something, I’m not sure if I like it, but that dulled discomfort held both in my ankles due to shoddy footwear that, like everything else, I would simply just have to adapt </span>
  <em>
    <span>around</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The ache that permeates through my body, adding a weighted emphasis to my gut and mind that I have become used too, the feeling now so common it scares me when it goes away, the thought nibbling at the back of my mind until the bustle of the day sweeps it away to nothingness as I strike a match, and light the cig I shakily hold with my teeth, and keep it, perched in the corner of my mouth, doing my most to not bump into something or accidentally fall into the cavern of Pogtopia and join the silverfish carcasses, which would just be… embarrassing, humiliating, and honestly? It is far too early for that right now, I just want to get to the kitchen in one piece and take a long nap in the corner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take the cigarette from my mouth, leaning my head back and exhaling a cloud of smoke, tapping the thing against the cavern wall, and placing it back between my teeth, frowning and continuing on my way, guiding my way around with my hand, as the whole, squinting thing, seems to be not working as well as I had been promised. Pogtopia still smells like the aftermath of a rainstorm, the scent clinging to the walls, and weighing down the air, making it feel heavy, and your brain needlessly fuzzy and distorted, like lightning static, intense and dreadfully subdued. My fingers sink, suddenly, into the carved groove of the moon I’d carved into the wall years before. I’m talking Fundy still having to be carried everywhere because he couldn’t walk, years before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I realize I’ve reached the kitchen, shoulders slumping in relief, a gentle humming hitting my ears, and I slouch through the doorway, cracking my neck with my hand, and sighing, as I pull out the kitchen chair, and practically crumple into it. Inhaling a breath of raspy smoke as I roll my eyes back into my head, and exhale into the direction of the ceiling. I sigh, and taking as big of a breath as I can muster, before returning the cigarette to the space between my teeth. Niki’s standing at the stove, making some sort of dish that I am far too in pain due to my actions of the day before to even be able to comprehend that, but she seems… I don’t know, at peace. Like my momma would when I was really little and she’d stress cook with me on early mornings when neither of us could fall asleep. Niki acknowledges me silently, with a grin, before returning back to her pasta, and before I can even get my bearings a hand has descended on my shoulder, signifying the arrival of my brother, which makes my mundane and scarcely calm smile flicker into a frown, before righting itself again, and returning to how it was, as if the break in control had never even happened to begin with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good afternoon, Wilbur. How are you today?” He drawls, sounding just as bored and yet perpetually amused as always, and I love him dearly for it, especially when it pitches up and the ends like mine does regularly. Sometimes, like when he’s really getting into a subject, and you physically just cannot shut him up for the life you, and he just rambles. His voice is nice, and what I’m getting at is that clearly, the cancel out feature that we'd agreed applied with twins that our child brains was the thing that decided who got the better features, somehow, the voice defaulted to him, and I won’t ever forgive him for it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning, Technoblade. I am existing more unfortunately than I was yesterday, so that’s real cool.” I say, yawning as I rub my temples in a half-assed effort to bully the headache that I can feel worsening, away into something tolerable, and something I can actually function with. I have shit to do today, after all, I can’t just decide to hibernate and not get any of it done, that’ll just make me angry later and I don’t want to deal with that today at all, period. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, fuck me. You’re hungover bad today, huh? I’d forgotten that was a thing.” He scoffs, scowling and looking absolutely and completely unamused at me, his shoulders slumped. He seems as if for him to forget that I was recovering from being all plastered like a right fool, was insulting to his own reputation, which meant he needed me on my best behavior and working order, for whatever bullshit I was about to get smacked in the face with. But regardless of any of that, he banishes the hazy, yellowed shine from his eyes, which brims in falsehood, and bleaches them down to his customary calm. He isn’t smiling at me, but he definitely seems to have pulled whatever shit that he was tending to together, and no longer seems so lost, like a paper boat drifting aimlessly in the water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One could say that, yes.” I confirm, nodding as I squint, resting my head in the crook of my arm, and yawning into the table, as if I was trying to hide away from the, granted, very minimal, light, that seemed to be blaring all around me, making my head pound and causing me to be so dizzy, my vision clouds over. I thank the gods I was sitting down, or I would have collapsed from something that, for once, is not a breathing issue. I kind of like the world all blurry, if I’m honest. Maybe I’ll let Tech keep my glasses for a bit longer. Call me crazy, but without them, everything is more… I don’t know, peaceful, and not as confrontational as everything being as crisp and solid, it gave me a headache, if I’m being honest. Besides, it’s easier to zone out when you’re just looking into a blur, and zoning out recently… it’s become more and more peaceful as exile continues to grate on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, fantastic. Regardless of that, do you think you’re up for having a talk?” He’s lowered his voice, significantly, which is slightly alarming. Even though it does not seem threatening on a surface level, I was well aware of how scary my brother could be. He slides into the bench seat across from me, and linking his fingers together on top of the table, surveying me, eyes appearing as if he’s looking right through me, unease lurking in the pit of my stomach, knowing full well that this ‘talk’, was going to be nothing good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t sound at all good, is something wrong, man?” I ask, lifting my head up, as I know he won’t speak to me if I’m not being respectful, because he’s just that fucking annoying of a person. I straighten my posture, meeting his eyes as I anxiously clear my throat, wanting nothing to do with whatever possible shit I’ve just agreed to getting myself into. It doesn’t help that I cannot read his emotions, right now, either. He could be preparing to stab me right here and now, and I would not even know it until I respawned. And, not to mention the cute little tidbit that is my twin kept trying to murder me when we were children, which is so incredibly quirky and relatable. End, pray this next long cig drag doesn’t make me cough and hyperventilate because of the whole lasting damage thing, because that? Right this minute? It would be humiliating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You tell me. What was the deal with you getting plastered yesterday? Tommy had to carry you home, Wilbur. You’re not nineteen anymore, man. What the fuck was that about?” His voice is caring enough, even though he is yelling, but it’s forgivable. He’s clearly incredibly upset, and rightfully so. I haven’t behaved like that since Fundy’s mother died, so it’s well worth the question. And even though he seems angry, he’s trying to keep it together for me, I can see it in his eyes. But, whatever it is, even though the intentions are beautiful, it makes me sad. I wish I could do this on my own. Somewhere away from all of them, so they didn’t have to watch. But, we rarely get what we want in this life, so I guess I’ll shut up about the what-ifs of it all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A momentary lapse in judgement,” I snap, holding up a finger, which stops him dead in his tracks, not finishing his conversation. “If all you’re going to do is yell at me, take it somewhere else. My head is pounding, and I will just tune out of it if you keep it up.” I say, matching my brother in his tone as I strive for keeping my words as vague as humanly possible, careful not to let anything major slip. As long as I get the idea across that I am alright and it was a one time mistake, I should be fine, and he should, if he has not already clocked the fact that my brain will implode if he yells, maybe he’ll refrain from doing so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Sorry, I will refrain from yelling. May we continue?” He questions, staring me down intently, and even if his tone is gentle, I am full aware that he has the upper-hand in this situation, and this is not necessarily a question, but more of a statement on his part. He has always been blunt, and painfully direct and to-the-point. But he’s protective, and kind, and I feel like he would rather his words to sting, then injuries, and skinning ones knee on the grit of a tombstone, which is why, the self realization of how fucked I am based on the tremor in his tone, is coming back full force, the consequences and karma of my actions rearing its head, are coming back to bite me on the ass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something tells me I don’t have much of a say whether we do or not, Techno.” I drawl, drumming my fingers against the top of the table for one go, as I lower my gaze from my brother to the wall behind him, taking a deep breath. I almost wanted to flinch away from the whole situation when I am met with my brother’s eyes, awash in molten concern, confusion, and fury. An emotionless, empty smile trickling across his face as he twirls one of the rings on his ring finger as he continues to stare at me, calculatively, the direct, and unwavering eye contact becoming extremely fucking unnerving by the minute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d be correct. What I’m saying is important, and as uncomfortable as I am with this topic of conversation, it needs to be had.” He says, managing a smile that he tries to send my way, which morphs into something else unrecogonisable about halfway through, and I can tell whatever battle we’re about to have, is nothing compared to the mental one he’s waging as of the current second. I am aware of the anomaly that is my brother. He’s so incredibly confident and talented in his own destructive violence that whenever he is making efforts to preserve, he isn’t exactly sure how, and fights with himself about it, his body and mind had become dreadfully unaccustomed to the need to protect, even if he so desperately tries. After so many years of being tuned to crave and feed on violence and blood, just like whoever took him redesigned him to be, I cannot blame him for not knowing how to approach this. Neither do I, and I’ve dealt with more than my fair share of mental issues, things like this is just hard, for everyone involved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” I say, nodding quietly, trying my very most to mentally prepare myself for this, which never works, but it seems to calm me down regardless. And however false that calm is, I still cling to it, as falsehoods are easier than the truth, and most of the time, they happen to be significantly prettier and far more palatable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wilbur, listen here, man. You know I am not one to fuck around and bat around the bush, so I am just going to come out and fucking say it. To preface, please know I adore you so much. You are my brother, my counterpart in all things beautiful, and I love you so incredibly dearly, and because of that, because I need to protect you and our family, I need you to know how much I feel for you and this situation, and I will aid in this revolution any way I can, but I cannot sit idly by and watch you descend further into this desperate madness that is leading you to nothing but destruction and ruin. It is painful for me to watch, and probably even more so for you to experience, please… tell me how to help you. And don’t look at me like that, I’m your twin, not some stranger on the street, I know you better than anyone.” He’d noticed. That was good. I thought I’d be all the way dead before any of these idiots even realized there’s something wrong. But the way its phrased like some sort of intervention-type bullshit, which my alcohol addled mind wanted to protest and flee from as quickly as I could. But I can tell from the silence evading from Niki in the kitchen that my brother had hit on a mutual feeling, and the both of them were heavily awaiting my answer. Counting the seconds to when I opened my mouth to debunk the concerns, to promise I would on fixing myself, and that I apologize for what I did, while in reality, there is nothing to debunk, and the apology will not be made because why do I have to apologize for trying to make an effort to fix something I had let go septic? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I genuinely am not in the mental headspace to peddle my emotions from an angle that those around me need to hear, and I have to force myself into it, forcing a small, assuring smile as I set my hand on my brother’s, taking a deep breath and hoping the git can’t see through my lies, and fucking nail me to a cross for it. He seems to slump down in relief and something that looks to me like a mirage of surrender, not realizing that I’d just played him with a strategy right out of our mother’s playbook for dealing with all us boys, and since he stopped speaking to her at the age of eleven, was not something he was terribly familiar with, but that’s a grudge I will monologue about later to the face of a wall, probably. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If I can remember, who knows, my brain is a bit wonky and unreliable as of late, so honestly, I have no idea. But I do want to not be here. I don’t want to lie to him, either. He doesn’t deserve that, I could make him understand, but then he’d know, and I know full well how capable of stopping me my brother is, and how he would not hesitate to render me unconscious, and drag me all the way back to our father, which was not a situation I wanted to be in, as he was definitely not a person I wanted to be anywhere near. Letters were enough. That was enough for me, right now, knowing he was there if I needed him, but knowing I wouldn’t have to see him be disappointed in me, because that would be the felling of my tether and last snippets of an already moronic rationale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The relationship with my father was a long and complicated one, one that confused me to this day. I have no doubt that he loves me, I have no doubt that he would do anything for his grandson, but he does not do well with showing it. Our mother was something that kept him human, and she tethered him to the concept of mortality, because he was not familiar with it, otherwise, even though I knew he tried. It was tense when I was a kid, especially right after Mum died. I was angry, upset, just… pissed at the world, and I blamed him. I blamed him for letting her go alone, for letting her go on that stupid trip when we all could see she wasn’t doing well, and yeah. I yelled at him. I screamed, and he screamed back. We didn’t really know how to live with each other, and I didn’t know how to be without my mother taking care of me, and me taking care of her, but there was Tommy. And I watched over him, raised the kid, practically, and if I’m honest, I took over the role my mother had left, because it’s what Tommy needed, and it’s all I could give. But me and my father, for the sake of our already decaying family and attitudes towards the other, took a break from each other’s company. Technoblade would come and visit from time to time, but apart from that, I stayed at Niki and Puffy’s with the boys, and my father and brother remained on the road, training, searching for our mum, even though we all knew, even if we didn’t want to fucking admit to it, that we would never find her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That unspoken boundary evaporated the day I told my father about Fundy, I’d shown up to their house, told them the news, and I have never seen my father more excited in his life, and Ender, did I think he was going to yell, but he didn’t. Techno in all his bluntly honest glory had told me, point blank, that Dad had realized how much he fucked up with me and Tommy, and he wanted to do everything he could to fix that with his grandchild, and I allowed him too. Because being a parent is not something selfish, it’s putting the needs of others in front of your own. And, just to put it as simply as possible, I knew that my child deserved a grandfather, so if I had to bury the past in order to let that happen for him, then so be it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sally’s death was not one I care to relive. With my mother, we never had a body to bury, we had nothing but our father saying he knew she was gone, and the grief following, but with Sally? She died in my arms, and there was nothing I could do to stop it, because I had caused this. Sirens are not supposed to live above water for too long, and because of Fundy and me, she risked it, even though I tried to convince her to not, but Sally O’Sullivan was a woman forged in iron, and brushed in mother of pearl, and she refused to allow some silly risk to come in between her and her family. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she passed, my father redeemed himself by allowing us to stay with him for a while until I was able to get back on my feet, and it was he, who took care of me, and practically forced me to not check out. To not leave my little boy, or Tommy, or Tubbo, because if I did… the mistakes he made with me and Toms, would just repeat, and that snapped me right on out of it. He’d redeemed himself in that moment, too. But, after I depart from the  matters of my child, and his own needs, and for the sake of my family, I still held things against my father. I still wondered why if he could recognize this behavior in me, and put an end to it literally three afternoons after I shut myself away, why couldn’t he have done it for himself when I needed him? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should never have let himself go away. He should have never abandoned me and my brother, and stayed around my twin, who I understood the need to protect full well, but it didn’t explain why he still left us. I loved my mother so much, it felt like the earth was collapsing on top of me when she passed, and nobody, not a soul, was there to take away the burden. But maybe that is just my own selfishness, but even then, I was a child, barely even a teenager, and I was left, alone, to cope with my mother’s passing, and to raise my little brother, while those two were just… gone. They had left us. And how was that fucking fair? I was a good father to my little boy. I was a good brother to Tommy, and you know what? Niki and I raised that kid. We raised Schlatt’s son, and fuck, I did a damn good job of it. Niki and I made sure that boy would never become the mortal wound in my side that is his father, at that man’s own request, if you can believe it, and who knows if he is even cognitive enough now to even connect the dots that Tubbo is even his son now? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who knows if he even remembers that boy? I gave Tubbo a better life. I rescued Jack from an unpleasant situation, and pulled that boy out of the gutter, helped him become more than what his admin-descent, crook of a father, could even dream of of that kid’s own merits. I was not someone who needed retribution, for I had had it in trying to make the world better for those kids, for </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>kids, and god, I thought L’Manberg could be that. And yes, it fucking stings that it cannot anymore, and excuse me, but I think I am entitled to that anger, and that I am allowed to control the time frame of my own creation’s demise, because what I’d built it for… was gone. And so, I lie. I lie yet again, for the sake of my family, and for the sake of the thing I have to do, and if honesty gets in the way, then fuck it. I’d rather have the lies burn with me, then let them remain for another moment. Dying with passion has always felt like a good way to go. For the good or for worse, I’ll be dead. Everything will get resolved, and even if I have to leave them behind, I have a chance at fixing something, Shouldn’t I take it? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Technoblade, listen to me, please. There’s nothing wrong with me, I promise. I am perfectly fine, I swear. Exile was a lot for me to handle, as is being separated from my little boy. Everything is just… so much, recently, okay? I promise it’s nothing bad, or extreme, it’s just my anxiety acting up. I’ll be fine. I swear.” I’ve lied well, and for a brief moment, I feel like I’ve managed a small success, and convinced him. But then, I watch as he slides from his slow, contented smile, to scowling and withdrawing his hand sharply from my own, tongue skimming the line of his teeth. A dull laugh starting in the back of his throat, becoming nothing but purely manaical laughter, so reminiscent of my own I have to do a double take, before he smacks his hand on the table, making me jump and jolt back, watching him in fear as he points at me, sneering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wilbur, don’t bullshit me. It’s insulting to my intellect.” He drawls, sounding like the quiet whisper of death, the gentle hum of the steady communication of fungus that runs underground, and the smooth and swift cleaving-off of someone’s head, and in all rights, he is purely terrifying. His eyes seeping in manic glee, and cruel, and painfully visible anger, held in only by biting his lip so hard, blood goes ignored as it drips down his face, before he wipes it away, chuckling at the red smeared on his fingers as he looks at me gesturing for a response sadistic enough to almost cause me to flinch away, wanting to leave more and more as the minutes stuck in this shit progress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not bullshitting you, Techno, what the fuck? Is it wrong of me to be paranoid and scared and determined to get something fucking done? Is it wrong of me to want to win my home back, no matter what? I don’t think so. And I take offense that you do!” I shout, screaming back at him, desperation and manic intent threading through my tone, my eyes becoming pleading, trying to convince him to back down from his attack stance. My breathing becomes narrow and shakily uneven, his eyes widen, and they seem to uncloud, alarm trickling into his face, reaching for my hands and clasps them, tightly, not letting me let go as I watch guilt replace his rage, an unspoken apology flitting soundlessly to me, that is accepted just as quietly. I don’t get to blame him for his outbursts, just for making me afraid. He can’t control that, and it isn’t him. I knew that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You're so used to being able to push people around you've forgotten that shit doesn't fucking work on me! I am asking you how you are doing and I am getting this male manipulative bullshit and I do not want to fucking hear it! Tell me the truth, or don’t speak. There are your options.” His tone is easier, not as elevated in rage and panic as before, but it is still raised and morbidly upset, and it sets aflame my nerves, and I shake my head, scoffing as I scowl at him, beginning to rock back and forth as I run my hands through my hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I tried, with everything I have left not to lose it, to let myself take the upper-hand, it was a cruel game of cat and mouse,  but so far, playing the apologetic, tolerable brother… it’s protecting me from something so much worse, it keeps the bad shit about me away, and plays into his little intervention. And if I play it correctly, I will win, and keep everything just as hidden as it was before, and carve out a whole new reality for him to nitpick me for, but that wasn’t right. That was not something I wanted. I wanted to be loved, and he thought I was angry, whereas, in reality, I don’t know what to do about it. I just know what I have to to get my plan through, and then I’ll be all good. There won’t be any wondering when I’m dead, right? I won’t have to hurt anyone with this bullshit anymore, it’ll be perfect. Pluto will finally be cut free of his own accord, no longer subject to the whims and whimsies of some cruel unknown. I don’t know how to read this situation. But for now, I need to fix it. I have too, or what the hell am I but some manipulative fucking monster?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I'm not trying to push you around or… manipulate you. I'm trying to protect you, goddamn it!” I yell, pulling at my hair and gasping for breath as I stand up suddenly. My back slamming against the wall, and sliding down, my breathing going out of control, for all the fear I have of when I lost him, I do a shitty job of showing how much I love him. My vision clouds, going askew, and falling sideways, and before I know it, he’s kneeling in front of me, brushing my hair away from my forehead, and we both ignore how I flinch when he touches me, apologies seeming to bite at the inside of his cheek, but never come to light. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“From who? Yourself? This isn't protection. This isn't salvation. You are planning to do something irreversible, do you realize that I am full aware of that? Answer me, Wilbur, don't be a child.” I shove away his hands, shuffling to my feet, and backing away from him, and for a moment, I just stare at him, my chest heaving, gasping for air, as horrid disgust and terror flickers through my eyes. This was the same thing that happened with my father, with Fundy, and now my brother, trying to help, isn’t understanding what’s going on, and he’s making it worse. I told him not to yell. I explicitly told him not to, and he had. Time to unleash shit, I guess. I love my brother, and I respect him, but I draw the line of letting him treat me like something to yell at, a punching bag, even if he can’t control it, there is no way that that is even slightly fair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, do not shut me up, Technoblade, do not. You are so fucking much like Father, do you know that? He would say exactly that to me a lot for that year me and Mum were without you. I watched them both crumble and I could do nothing but watch and try not to do the same. Oh, and then when you came home, I was so fucking happy my brother was home, but I was still ignored. You were favored, you were cared about, you were fucking loved! There was so much love for you, where was that for me, huh? Where the fuck was that for me? Mama and I loved you </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>much and you threw us away! For what? I just wanted us to be one big happy family again, but you didn’t understand that!” I roar, slamming my hand down on the table, furiously wiping away at my tears, and biting at my lower lip so aggressively I know it will scar, but my entire heart feels like it’s breaking, and my mind whirs with the memories of my childhood. How good everything was for such a short while, and how sudden it turned bad, even though no one wanted to admit to it. I had to build my own family, take care of those kids, give them as good of a childhood like the ones I would dream about, and protect them until my final breath, doing everything for them, that was never once done for me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing was fair, nothing was fair, but I wasn’t a child, I knew the world was not built on right on wrong, it was built on a vast void, far below the ground we lay on, and if I just tempted fate… I could return, and finally, fucking finally, be at peace. Oh! And I could see my mama! And we could make pancakes again, it’ll be great! Just us, just like it was before she went away. I pull myself back to the moment, turning my head into the kitchen, and meeting Niki’s eyes, a gentle encouraging, yet nearly-evaporated smile ghosts across her features as she nods, beaming at me as tears track down her face. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I am so proud of you. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She mouths, and my heart rings in my ears. Oh. I didn’t know this would lead to </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. This feeling is nice, it is worth stopping time for, and it calms my very being, but even then, I force myself back to the present, tuning back into the moment, allowing my brother the time to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am here for you now! Is that not good enough? I was a child, Wilbur, I had no control over any of it! I was terrified, and traumatized, and you know what… you ignored me, too! If we’re going to talk about this, let us be real to each other about it, not just hide behind our parents’ lies and hoist it up as the truth.” The words feel like poison, and they grate against my being, making me flinch back, and for a moment I want to retort, to snap back at him, but I bite down on my lip. Lacerating at the skin, before I realize… They are going to yell at me. They are going to be upset, they are going to want answers, and right now, my brother is telling me how he feels, and he never does that, so for the sake of this, whatever the fuck, I will listen. His perspective is not my own, I did not grow up in his shoes, and we both need to know how our family hurt us, if we want to put a stop to the fucking cycle. That’s the only way to fix these kind of things. Stopping them. Quickly, and immediately, before they get out of hand, and spiral out of control, because we all know how that ends. Sing a song of my L’Manberg to pass the time, y’know? Sing of my failure, and maybe you, yourself, will be hailed for it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not hiding behind his lies, Technoblade! I did that enough! When Tommy was born, do you know what I did? I was ten years old and I still raised him as my own. You and Dad were gone, you’d left me and Mum, did you know that? I know what happened to you, when we still spoke together regularly you’d told me in detail, but that isn’t any excuse to leave us behind! Our mum spent hours looking for you, god, man, it was fucking months, and you just… left her? And then when she had Tommy, and thought it would fix everything, but it definitely didn’t, even though that kid is the best out of all us, because of me! I raised that fucking kid! Even when Mum checked out, guess who pulled through? You want to talk about not hiding behind lies? Let’s go. Because I have been keeping quite a few, and I am just itching for the opportunity to fucking let fly, Techno! Jesus fucking Christ! I am so sick and tired of you causing me to react like this! I know you want to help, trust me, I know, but this isn’t… you aren’t helping. You’re scaring me, and I have been scared too much in my life, okay? I… I am so tired. I can barely breathe anymore, and that makes yelling even more of a bitch for me than it already is, and everywhere I turn it burns and I see nothing but flames and destruction and yet you are yelling at me, and I can’t do it! I cannot handle this. I am trying, is that not enough for you? I just want my brother to love me, is that too much to fucking ask, Theodore?” The silence is deafening. Like a wave, one that forebodes, and bites, and rots away at things that we had agreed to keep silent about, but it feels heavenly, and freeing, as if I’d just taken the first real inhale of fresh air in years, my breathing feeling strangely liberated, as if the shrapnel was gone, as if it hadn’t even existed to begin with. In all my years, I had never once told them what they did, or they made me feel, because my feelings, and my shit, is not their burden to hold, I know that. I know that at the end of the day, I can fix my own problems, I don’t need help with it, I don’t deserve that, but others?</span>
</p><p>
  <span> They do. They deserve that. I have to help </span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not myself, because that’s selfish. And my Mama used to say that selfish people aren’t ones that are loved easily to me all the time, but… moments ago… whatever that was, it wasn’t selfish. It was honest, and the first time it had ever burned through my family’s veins at that extent, in a long, long time. When we think about it, in depth, this time,  I had yelled about the hidden things of my family’s that I’d contributed to hiding, just adding to the web of secrets and lies, until it felt… I don’t know, indestructible…  infallible, almost. But nothing is indestructible, everything has an expiry date, everything is meant to die. I know that now. This had to stop, this mountain of falsehoods had to crumble before I left, and I had to be the reason for it, I had to try and make things right, I owe them that much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Niki was proud of me, I saw it in her eyes before I let everything go in a hurried, frenzied yell. She’d told me so, I remember the glint in her eyes when she’d whispered it, and I remember her crying. And I remember wanting to stop her from crying, but I couldn’t, because Theo and I had to talk with each other. We had to fix this, we owed it to our mother, we owed it to our brother, and I owed it to Niki, because what is to be proud of, if I cannot even fix what I’m trying to resolve? This shit has not been addressed in decades. I don’t know what Theodore’s reaction is going to be that, because as of this moment, he seems floored. Shocked. Blank. As if he had absolutely no fucking idea where to go with this or what to do, and that was understandable. And yes, his name is Theodore. You think that kid popped out with the name ‘Technoblade’? In my mother’s household? No. Kirsten Soot-Minecraft would not permit that, which is why my name was not Egbert, and all I can say is thank god for my mother, because the very thought of that is humiliating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> ‘Technoblade’, was a nickname. A nickname that I’m not sure who gave it to him first, but stuck with him through childhood, and far into adulthood, and will probably be the name that sits on his tombstone, if anyone actually ever figures out how to kill the fucker. But his real name is just as valid if you are one of the privileged few who are still allowed to use it and if you are not, I wish you the best. You’ll need it. On another note, and the reason behind why I’ve been so carelessly poetically lighthearted, is that I’ve forgotten how sweet the taste of freedom truly is until this moment, and god, it is the most liberating thing on the planet, and I’ll be honest, the relief is strange, and this feeling is one that I don’t understand, but I like it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even if I know I’ve broken a family rule, and by scaring Theodore I may have fucked up again, but for now… just… allow me to be relieved about something. Peace is a rare occurrence, especially the peace that scarcely holds idle in our minds, if ever, anymore. Maybe we just aren’t appealing to the lady of peace anymore. Maybe her favor has shifted to that of others. There was a story that mirrored that, that resembled one our father used to tell us as children about a painter, and her muse who abandoned her, if I can remember correctly, but if that remembrance is right, I wish I was not the painter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will… I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I’m… I’m so sorry. You… you called me Theo? I’m sorry, my thoughts are being weird, you called me Theo? You haven’t… Nobody’s… You called me Theo.” He sounds like he’s eleven again. Back when he had allowed our mother to cut his hair, something he never did, because of his scar, and how much it scared our parents. But, Mum was always gentle, and her fingertips were light, and she did not mention it once, and slowly, she managed to trim it back into something far more manageable, and things seemed fine. He was smiling, he seemed to like it, too, he whispered it to me to tell our mother, and I did. And then Mama was hugging him and telling him how proud she was of him, and things… things were fine, he was holding my hand, just as quiet as before, but about two hours later, he’d vanished. We couldn’t find him anywhere in the house, he wasn’t in our bedroom, he wasn’t in the garden. He was absolutely nowhere to be found. And let me get this straight, after we’d lost him for a year, every small, usual harmless disappearance of his, even just small time discrepancy, felt like another prologue to yet another disappearance of his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>We searched for him, through the whole house, and for a moment, I thought whoever had taken him was back. But somehow, through that immense wave of panic I remembered where he used to hide every single damn time when we played hide and seek, and sure enough, he was hiding in that hall closet. He was rocking back and forth, speaking to himself, begging with something that was not there, and the only way I could get him back was by slowly bringing him towards me, rocking him back and forth, and beginning a gentle singsong of his name, his full name, who he was, who his family was… only then did his eyes begin to clear up. I walked downstairs hand in hand with him about half an hour later, and I’d barked at my parents to shush it when they’d started shouting about where we’d been, and they somehow, got the message, and I led him into our room, tucked him in to bed, and I sat down next to him, and read, until he fell asleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was still my Theo. My stupid, idiot brother who was afraid of our mum’s house cats, and would scream and throw shit if a spider came anywhere remotely near him. But, what I was not expecting, was an apology, and yet, that was what he had uttered the most. To me, the words didn’t make much sense, but it was nice knowing that I was still able to catch him off guard like that, that a name and the things connected to that name, was enough to take all the fight right out of him, which now? Never happened. My brother had been forged as a fighter even when we were children, but he had been re-forged as a warrior, one of the most notable of our era, along with our father, not that he needed it, he was perfect even before all of it happened, but it did, regardless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I did. It’s your name, isn’t it? Your real one, I mean. Not that Techno isn’t a real name, but, do you remember when we were just known as Wilbur and Theodore? Our mama’s boys, the first sons of our father. We were both loved so equally. So perfectly. And it dying… that wasn’t your fault. Our parents just… did their best, and for me and Tommy… that wasn’t enough. They were great people, but… not the best parents. But, that isn’t… it isn’t the problem at hand.” I speak as if I’m in a trance, and in a way, I am. Memories bobbing to the surface, conversations from the past echo in my mind, and End, it all feels so familiar, and yet so incredibly far away. There were things that dwelled in my mind, as if cemented there, unbudging, the thoughts of home and peaceful days of the smell of tea. The feeling of a knitted blanket. The sound of laughter that looms, doomed to hang forever in a pas de deux with those of blood, destruction, and icy guilt, that twists and turns and pollutes, always toeing the line of </span>
  <em>
    <span>preservation</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and complete and total, </span>
  <em>
    <span>obliteration</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. I know, Will. I’m sorry. I… I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but whatever they put in my head… it won’t let me think right, man. I was yelling at you and I couldn’t even stop, but I promised not to yell, and I did. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. Yell at me. Scream at me. Hit me. Fuck, I don’t care, anymore, I’ve hurt you and I didn’t even know I was doing it, and I am so sorry that I can’t fix it.” I wasn’t going to fucking hit him, nor was I about to scream or yell, either. That isn’t how you fix anything, I know that. Impulsivity works in a lot of other situations, like the whole Manberg problem, but it wouldn’t work with this. Chaos was our thing, but with each other we had to be gentle, and that, to me, is the brunt of a sea of jokes in the making.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d apologized. He’d literally just flat out told me he couldn’t control his own mind because of what happened, I understood that. Not to that extent, but I understand the feeling of being completely powerless. I understood pulling at stray ends, desperate for something to let you gain the upper hand, even if it hurts those around you. I understood losing control, and I was the one who understood my brother, knew the guy better than most, and I could see he meant what was said, and it stung, hearing the theme of naivety in his voice, hearing that he still believed that people could be ‘fixed’, which is simply not the case, even if that is something they truly deserve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neither of us can fix this, Theo. We are not things to fix, that’s not how people work, or I would have helped you in that way years ago, but I forgive you for yelling. What happened when were kids is not your fault, do you hear me? Tommy not being able to go to sleep without screaming himself awake? That isn’t his fault, either. We cannot help the environments we were born into, and we did our fucking best. I will not keep fighting with you, because you know that I will not be around for long, and you know I won’t let you tell anyone, but I don’t want to die with us hating each other.” I keep my voice even, calm, trying not to scare him, or set him off. What I’m saying is the truth, the cold blunt, truth, and I desperately do not want my brother to hate me when I go, because it’s going to happen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One day, I will reach the end of the line, and going out with him hating me… would make it worse, I think. He seems nervous, not knowing what to do with what I just said, which is alright. We’ve never been that good at communication, stringing ourselves along on trust, and the matter of us being brothers, identical twins, even, which is a bond not many can ever begin to understand. He’s beginning to scratch up his neck, it’s some old nervous habit, and it makes me frown, sighing as I carefully take my brother’s hands away, ignoring how much they appear to be trembling for the sake of his honor, and I smile at him, tracing gentle, and minute little squiggles on the back of his hand. I sigh gently, and force him to take a deep breath with me, focusing on convincing everything bad, dark, and confusing and oddly reminiscent of a Jackson Pollock painting. As far away from where I’m able to pick through it, as I possibly can, banishing away the taste of blood, and replacing it with a cherry facade of buttered-up lies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope it doesn’t get to that. But, know that if it does, End forbid, know that I don’t hate you, Will. I’ve never hated you. I’ve admired you, for what you’ve managed to achieve, regardless of it being politics, and how much I hate politics, you know that. But even through every fucked thing that’s happened to you and Tommy through that whole shit storm of the toddler government, I am still so proud of you, and I am also so very sorry that I couldn’t have done better. I’m sorry, Will. I really, really am.” Now it’s my turn to be speechless, which, does not happen on the average day, I can find my reasoning dissipating every few seconds, and I can still come up with something to say even if it is just flat-out stupid. But in this instance, I feel my mind register up a blank as I try and think about what to say now, as the ones my brother had just uttered careen through my mind like a vehicle on top speed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> I had not been apologized to in such a long fucking while for something that wasn’t just childhood arguments over petty things that were enhanced due to us being twins. Twins who shared literally everything until, and for a bit after, I had a child.  Of course there’s the fact that living under the same roof just in general, especially if you’re that alike, you tend to argue, and sometimes straight up fight the other person, even if we love each other dearly, we just got tired of being with each other all of the fucking time, I think. And there’s the point to mention that my brother is just inherently violent, which is very fair, and a endearing feature of his, which sounds odd to hear, but he’s a sweetheart, even if he has murdered a few hundred people. But besides that, name one pair of siblings that can exist peacefully with each other, especially when they’re literally fucking twins, which is a point I keep bringing up, but it’s necessary to, because familiarity, especially when the other person looks just like you, it’s impossible to not want to punch them in the face one minute, and then say you love them the next. But, let’s get this very clear. When this conversation began, I was not looking for a fucking apology, I’m not a child anymore, I don’t do that shit, but to hear it, just… </span>
  <em>
    <span>said</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Out of the blue, like that? Was completely, and absolutely, </span>
  <em>
    <span>shocking</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Especially from the emotional brick wall that is my twin brother hearing an apology is more rare then getting struck by lightning, and it feels good, maybe even better, when I know that he means it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Familiarity breeds contempt, Theo. We’ve known each other for so long, it’s hard to watch the other change and move on without the other, huh?” I whisper to him, sighing and cracking my neck, the aches and pains of yesterday trickling back to me like the melt-off a late spring snow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Momma always used to say that we were like the twins, from mythology. You were the sun, I was the moon. And as much as we love each other, it’s so incredibly hard to shine as bright when the other is in the sky. Also, You know this, but I’ve always, um, liked Artemis, so I, uh, I never argued with her, also because she was right. The comparison was correct. I, uh… I do need to say something to you, and I promise I will be calm about it, does that… um, does that sound good to you?” I chuckle, grinning, as I remember momma’s stories, who prologued  me and Theo’s, gave inspiration for them once our baby brother was born. She especially loved to tell us the ones about twins, for obvious reasons. And so, we grew up with the more colorful, and long ones about our father and mother and the various tales about their heroism, and the odd sprinkled-in tale about some legendary pair of twins we would both project ourselves onto. I nod, grinning at how gentle he’s trying to approach this, and wave him on, gesturing at my brother to continue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, I understand your reasoning for being emotionally thin, I went into this knowing things would probably not be completely stable in the emotions department, but I cannot sit by and watch this happen to you. It has gone on for far too long, without anyone saying anything about it. So I am going to be the one to say it. You are not behaving like the Wil I know, and, apparently, you have not for months, according to our little brother. The Wilbur I grew up with would not do what you are doing to that little boy. I know you are stressed, trust me, I get that. But he is a child, and you may say it is not my place, because I made it clear I couldn’t handle family years ago, and I know full well that I can’t, that is why I started yelling, I don’t know how to show anything but violence to others anymore, and that is my baggage to deal with. But, this is where I have to draw the fucking line, even though I did not want to. Because the Wilbur I know wouldn't fucking scare Niki like you did last night, or hurt our brother. You are so much better than this, you are so much better than me, and you always have been, especially with other people, so what… what the fuck are you thinking? You're trying to protect them and me so much, that it's pushing everyone you’ve loved away from you and it isn’t even your fault! Just… I don’t fucking know, man, just be there. For them. Stop being a selfish git for once, quit the overthinking, if you can, and try and understand your fucking impact on others before it’s too late! I know you think dying will fix this, but it won’t, it won’t, okay?” He’s somehow managed to keep his tone calm, and even, only raising towards the end there. Which I have to give him credit for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, even then, I can see the rage in his eyes that just hover beyond the surface of brown eyes identical to my own, in everything but a small, blue corner in his left. He isn’t shaking, is barely breathing, now that I focus on him, and he seems to just be staring at me, almost pleading with me, and fuck, god something in me know he’s right, but I can’t… I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I have made up my mind about this, and I know the radius of fire and acid just keeps growing, and how it seems each person who tries to speak to me, or just, I don’t know, help me, gets harmed in the process in some way or another, but I cannot stop. I know my decision. I know what has to be done, and I know its messy, I know it’s shitty, and terrible, and immoral, but right now? I don’t have a fucking choice. I don’t with Schlatt, with the kids, with Niki, with my son, or, even worse, with Dream. I had given that man my word that this would get done, and if it did not happen? If I went back on my word? End knows that he would inflict as much mortal pain on both me and my family that he possibly could until the lesson had been learned. He’d given me a taste of that; a warning, and now… for them, I was determined to not ever let that become a reality. So, I steel my gaze, dig my nails into my palms, and create a defense faster than my brain can even process my surroundings, my entire being focused on defending myself, and my </span>
  <em>
    <span>decision</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My impact? I’m trying to fix it, Theodore, this is how! This is how I fix it! You have to let me fix it, or I-” I demand, flinching when he holds up a hand, eyes meeting mine in a rage I very much do not want to be on the receiving end of, but once he’s put every slight wrong doing of mine, however briefly discussed it was, out into the open, I understood the reason behind the anger, and why I was interrupted, and god, it made me feel sick. And I fucking deserved that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wilbur, please shut up. I love you dearly, but I have to be able to speak to you like you are my brother, and not some presidential asshole that I currently want to lovingly strangle.” Theodore snaps, his words bite and lacerate at me, making me nod in admission of the fact that he was completely correct, and I needed to shut up, now. I hang my head, looking to the ground as if transfixed by a pebble by the table leg. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” I say, forcing all signs of emotion as far away from me as I possibly can, and surprisingly enough, it works, the tone of my voice sounding hollow, and barely existent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good, so you do have the understanding of what filters are, that’s exceptional. Listen up here, you stupid little shit that I share DNA with, I don’t like being mean to you, okay? I don’t. But I am only going to say it just this fucking once. I know we are not each other’s biggest fans, I know we are far too alike, because twins are fucking like that.  But if you fucking die on me, because of this… superficial fucking bullshit that can be narrowed down to your attachment to screws and nails, no matter the effort you’ve put into it, okay? I’d rather have you alive, than having to fucking bury you. And, just to clarify, if you die on me, I will never forgive you. If you leave, I will never forgive you for it. Ever. Are we clear?” He seethes, anger bleeding from his eyes, which pierce me, looking at me so intensely, I feel like I can’t move. There were things he’d said I wanted to dispute. The way he spoke about how Manberg once was… was one of them, but I wasn’t going to dare to even mention that, never mind bring it up or try and prove it wrong, because he was right. And how he knew that I was heading towards death, allowing my mind to careen me back towards it, even, was terrifying, but I couldn’t not pretend like it was true, that would just make it worse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re clear, Theo. We’re very clear. Can I… Can I say something, please?” I ask, eyes searching him for any emotional cues I possibly can, coming up with nothing but… relief. It stings. I have to start writing down which lies are which, it’s becoming too much for my brain to remember, they’re making me go crazy. All these false narratives whirring by, coaxing me to follow it until my demise. I didn’t like traitors, and I didn’t like liars, but here I am. Feeding from the same mental table, and becoming just another traitorous liar. Round and round goes the clock, and cycles just keep going and going, and I guess this is one that I couldn’t stop, but oh, fuck the self pity, I know exactly what I am doing, and I know I am in the right, that’s what makes all this shit so fucking annoying. Everybody trusts your judgement as a leader until you try and do something impulsive, and ‘immoral’, and it’s making me want to lose my fucking shit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, as long as it isn’t your victim complex saying hello.” This man does not know when to shut the fuck up, I want to strangle someone, and one day it will wind up being him. I force a smile, regardless, and scoff, rolling my eyes as good naturedly as I can muster, which is becoming easier and easier as exile as dregs on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My victim complex? Oh, buddy, in that field, the whole, identical twin, thing? It stands out like fluorescent yellow at a funeral. And so we’re clear, we both got our fair share of self victimization. You know what, in your credit, you are so very good at passive psychologic observation of others, while you are blind to your own mental asphyxiation. Whereas I am far too self aware for my own good, and rarely notice the blood staining the hands of those around me, even those I love. Fatal flaws come in all shapes and sizes, I suppose. Those are just one of ours.” I am very proud of this sudden analysis of my brother, and of the situation, if I’m fully honest, it distances my mind’s focus away from myself, and onto someone else, and gives me a breather, however temporary it will be, but Theodore just kind of sits there and blinks at me, raising his eyebrows, taking the most exasperated deep breath I have ever heard a person take, and bring his hands to his eyes, sighing. Which is Theodore Soot-Minecraft for what the actual fuck am I hearing, complete with the look he hits me with afterwards of just… perpetual, and complete, indignation. Which is, again, very fair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s called mental illness, Wilbur. You are talking about side effects of mental illness, not fatal flaws, those are two separate things, ones a literary device, the other is just mental illness. Anyway, I assume that was not what you wanted to say to me, what was it then?” He says, sighing, and rubbing his eyes, and turning back to me, smiling at me gently, and almost, for some reason, encouragingly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s nothing. I’m fine. I’ve said everything I have to say, just know I understand, and I’ll try to fix it, for you, Niki, and my boys. I promise.” I didn’t need to fake this. I didn’t need to lie to need to protect my kids and my family, that was something I would take to my grave, my need for destruction is admirable, okay, and understandable, but the preservation of keeping my boys safe, and doing this for them, to fix the shit I’d gotten us into, was even more so. They were all children, and I had gotten them involved in a war. My son wasn’t even seven human years old, and he’d been fighting with me since I could keep him away from it no longer, thus his crayon-colored uniform, so vastly different to our blue coats, so easy to distinguish it eased my nerves, even just a little bit, so if… </span>
  <em>
    <span>you know</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I could identify the body without having to search for him for too long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s far too small for him now, but I remember when we had to make it three sizes too big, just to hope he’d grow into it, and he had. It had taken him four years to do so, and he gloated over all of us when he could not button the undershirt, as if it was some sort of accomplishment. Which, in all fairness, it was. And then in the matter of Tommy and Tubbo… There was a lot to be said there. A lot that I cannot let myself admit to doing, because it was war. We all had to make choices that we did not want to do, fuck, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>war, now that I think about it. Those kids were raised during war, it’s all they know, but I knew better. And I should have been better, even though now, I have no idea how. Yeah, hypocritical. I know. End, do I know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll try and fix it, too. You deserve a brother, not a weapon. You have to remember, though, Wil, that a person is not built to be a machine. You cannot treat yourself like your existence is infallible, you can not stick to a belief that you are perfect in everything you do, because you are not. I am not. None of us are perfect, nothing is, okay? Even, I know this will hurt to hear, but even L'manburg wasn't perfect, even in it’s prime, and it isn't your fault that what it once was is gone. Time is fickle, it does at it pleases, and sometimes it allows things to last, and other times, it does not, and this is never something that's up to us to determine. Things happen, and they happen, sometimes, without much of a rhyme or reason, and we just have to be there for the ride. Just take it slowly, okay? Know things exist temporarily, and try and move on, even if you have to lie to yourself.” This is hard for me to stomach, and before you ask which part, think along the lines of all of it. Every word of it. It was hard for me to comprehend, hard to stomach, even though it made sense if I connected it to someone else just fine, but if I tried to reroute it back to me, my chest began to feel like it was encased in a molten cage that was digging through my skin and pulling back my ribs, an invisible force cranking a wheel to try and pull my being apart, and honestly? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was insulting that it was that easy to fucking achieve, not like I’m some Rock of Gibraltar, or anything, it just stung. All of it. Especially the parts where I knew he was telling the truth, and I knew he was right, but this was just not a reality I had ever opened myself up for. None of this had ever even crossed my mind, it’s like I went from dying for my second time, and being in that primordial death void for almost three days lamenting about how shit me and Tommy’s luck was, to immediately beginning to plan my return, and settling on destruction as the next, and best, possible bet. It was the worst possibly reality check, and I could not handle it, in all honesty. No. It’s not that I can’t handle it, it’s that I won’t allow myself to go near it, and I already know why. I’d already taken my path, embraced my fate, welcomed death like an old friend, what else was there to do, really? It’s not like I can go back on that, not even if I wanted too, I’d made a deal, to both a friend, and myself, and in the wise words of my kid brother, and probably the most annoying fucking Vice President in history, ‘no take backsies, bitch’.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You would rather my dishonesty over truth?’ I ask of him, ignoring when my voice seems to give out, becoming even just a bit quieter towards the end. I’ll be honest, I have no idea how to approach what was said, nor do I understood how to respond, besides making it make sense for me, and that asking him for indirect permission to continue to lie so we would never have to have this conversation again, and I could give him even a smidgen of peace of mind. Even it is just a fucking lie, it’s better than nothing, and I don’t know if he recognizes that or not, but before I know it, he’s fucking hugging me, which he never does, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But he’s hugging me, and I can’t help but melt, trying to push away my urge to just break down sobbing, which would definitely throw a wrench in my plan. I wrap my arms around him as tight as I can, and rest my head on his shoulder, not daring to let go, and it doesn’t seem like he will, either, because he’s holding me just as tight, and I’m allowed to breathe again, and it feels… like the weight of the world has been lifted from my shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My darling brother, my equal in all things. I would rather you be safe and alive, in my company, then continue watching you continue to spiral towards whatever hell you have designed for yourself in the cover of night. People lie each and everyday, you know that. You are the politician in the family, after all. You are good with lies, I know that, I’ve watched you speak them fluently on my own behalf, but this one has the potential to destroy everything you’ve ever created in one fell swoop, and I can’t let you do that. It is never selfish to try and piece yourself back together at your own pace after something bad happens, Will. You aren't a bad a guy for wanting your home and family back. Just a reasonable one.” He pulls away from me, and pinches at my cheek, smiling softly, before turning, and exiting the way he’d come without a word, leaving me to exhale a cloud of smoke into the sky, and sit in my own party of regret and contemplation, content in my words, and laughing as a self satisfactory grin slips onto my face, as if there’s a make-believe audience applauding me at my very own venue of spun silver, and crushed velvet deception, praising my deceit and basking in it, like a snake coming out of hibernation.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you so much for reading, and for all the kudos and hits and attention this has been getting! writing this is just a joy and simply wonderful, and i am so glad it's been accepted so well by you guys! in correlation to the pluto metaphor, please know that i am completely aware we canonically only have eight planets. but since i am angry at nasa for demoting my beloved pluto, i like to pretend he is still up there with the same status as his family. i also decided that since i was a strange elementary school granola family student who projected onto planets, I decided to do the same with wilbur because i said so and it makes sense with his character, to me at least. and his or techno's motives aren't supposed to make much cognitive sense, if i'm being honest. the twins are complicated, but fun to write, however painful it is at times.<br/>i'm preparing a really cool chapter that i should get out soon, about basically irl minecraft mechanics and mythos and how that works out in my head, and i can't wait to share it with you guys, as it clears up some gaps 'n stuff it will probably get moved towards the beginning, because it works as a good prologue, so yeah, love my brain working in increments of sense! anyway, enough from me, i hope you have a wonderful rest of your morning, afternoon, evening or night, and, as always, i hope your existence remains a beautiful one.<br/>el &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. ⏁⊑⟒  ⎍⋏⟟⎐⟒⍀⌇⟒</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In the beginning, you must understand, there was absolutely nothing anywhere.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi! this chapter's song is called 'in this shirt', by the irrepressibles! i hope everyone's doing well, and your april is swag, and hopefully not too windy, springs are gale winds for me usually so it's rough to go outside with allergies, but i hope spring is going well for you! i've been putting off editing this for a few days because i've been tired and watching criminal minds, so sorry about that you were supposed to get this saturday, and i procrastinated, whoops, lmao! uhhh this is my fancy world building chapter, and it should clear up some stuff about the back story, and like minecraft technics in this story, so yeah hope you enjoy this one, it's a little break from the main narrative, so don't worry if it doesn't connect with our last chapter!! i just really enjoy making up fictional mythology, it's so genuinely fun. I suppose this is like the origin smp lore, but like maxxed out to 100 because i have absolutely no chill. thank you all so much for the reads, all the support for my writing is so appreciated, and I cannot believe we're at almost 600 hits and fifteen kudos! love you guys, and thank you so very much! the 'enderman ' in the title reads 'the universe'.</p><p>cw: some mentions of ab*uction, memory loss, and imprisonment. </p><p>pronunciations!!<br/>E'ryre: Air-ryer<br/>Myentel: My-en-tell<br/>Endestyre: End-dest-tire<br/>Enesthema: En-es-the-ma<br/>Hellenia-Hellen-ia</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>ACT I: The Deceit of Achilles</p><p> </p><hr/><p>In the beginning, you must understand, there was absolutely nothing anywhere. That was, until a great big <em> something </em> decided it was time for there to be, and all of a sudden, our world was brought into existence. Not many are sure how this came to be, as no one but Death and Creation were there to watch, and they’re pretty sure this is how it went. But regardless of this, this new <em> thing </em>, not yet classified as anything but the first thing that had ever truly existed, and this became known as ‘the Terre’, the earth. </p><p>This is the realm that dwells above with the sun and moon, a wide expanse, home to creatures and beings that knew only three things when they arrived, the sun shining into their eyes, the light growing warm on their flesh as they take their first breath. The words are whispered to them gently by some unseen presence, great and all-knowing, as one would expect of the universe. Upon arrival, they are told that the universe loves them because they themselves are love eternal, and the universe itself, would caretake their being, walking them, hand-in-hand through one of several hundred abysmal planes, this one known simply to those who walked the seemingly infinite expanse of the Terre as, <em> The Respawn.  </em></p><p>The second thing, some hold this over all others, even though the universe does not like that, is that everything you have is inside you, the need to create, the knowledge and passion to survive. The third and final thing, that although none of this was not temporary, it assures us that whatever is beyond once those three strikes are spent, is not something to be afraid of, and it, once that time has come, will walk with it’s creation, as equals, to assure that they are at peace. For the Universe loves its beings, and did not design the pain that they seemingly wrought on themselves, for that makes it sad. It believes that it’s beings deserve more than that, but it guesses that if it can only do that for them in death, than that is but a little blessing. </p><p>Sometimes the Universe allows itself to walk on the surface of this world, smiling at the expanse of ground and sky of its own creation. Taking delight in the realm where it’s creations live, and where it willed them into being formed, and later born. But that was in the early days, and things were simple, too much so that it began to feel unstable, and it knew that the Terre and the beautiful things that were there, was not enough, and so, it willed the Terre to expand. And so it split into three, the Terre, the Nethere, and the Ende, and they were triplets in their creation, perfectly balanced, in everything. </p><p>But the Universe began to realize, as Creation and Death began to walk from all three, infinitely wandering from the harbor of soul to sou, that the Ende remained unstable. The Ende was the Universe’s daughter, the last created, but one of the Universe’s first loves, regardless of the odd edges and strange things that she had been created of. Her and her brothers were happy, and for a long time, they took care over what they had been given and the creatures that lived there as lovingly as the Universe had done for her own. But, this girl was one who weaved a greedy tapestry, and she craved more. She was the youngest daughter, the first immortal being that took the form of both something that appeared human, and something that was not, and although her intentions were good, she was paving her way to hell.</p><p>She became corrupted. By things that were far older than her and her siblings, and spoke in a language that has never been documented, and is not one that anyone of this plane possesses the knowledge to comprehend as things that are true in being, but it was by these words, and this language, however forgotten it is today, that the Universe suffered the loss of it’s daughter, or at least… the daughter it had loved oh so dearly, so much so that it tore apart the fabric of reality for. Going as far as to break it’s own natural law in the process, rules that not even it trusted itself in breaking. It’s daughter, Ende, was destroyed by her mother, the Universe itself, and doomed to be contained inside a dragon for the rest of eternity. Felled down by each Player that came to the End, seeking freedom for those who live there, although those inhabitants do not remember why they need it, for the Universe was kind. </p><p>It allowed Ende to forget, so it was as if each time was the first, and it seemed those descended from her and her own creations inherited a memory that was not destined to last without documentation. She, Ende, the daughter of the Universe and a rather insatiable deity known as the <em> Inbetween </em>, the sister of Terre and Nethere, once a great queen, a fair and just ruler over her family, was now simply a lone dragon of the End. Doomed to spiral forever above obsidian towers that hold her there, as she tries her best to remember what she had done to cause her parent to hate her this much, until… the memory fades away as her body falls to the end stone floor with a Player’s arrow in her skull</p><p>Once Ende had been captured and restrained, the middle brother, Nethere, a man who understood the workings of time, space, and the ways his world and those of his sibling’s, work, he designed the way the portals worked for easy transportation between the realms. A discovery his parent rewarded him heavily for, and assisted in his own empire, an empire of fire and bone, armed in the blood curdling shrieks and sinful choirs of Ghasts, the fiery explosions and chemical prowess of the Blazes, and the blade and prophetical knowledge of the Piglins. </p><p>A millenium has passed and things have solidified, the things of the present turning into legend, and the siblings continue on. Ende, forever trapped and chained to unbreakable obsidian chains, watches the generations of Enderlings come and go, and makes sure to keep safe each one. Calling the wanderers home each night, like a mother calling her children back from their place of play, and mourning when she watches a family walk home without one of their own, lost to the lands of one of her brothers. Nethere remains in the fiery depths of his realm, learning the code of the universe and bending it for his own will. He is driven by the inclination to make sure the gift his parent gave him, does not go to waste. He documents the creatures who have made this place home, and takes delight in their cultures, relishing the role of father, and maybe even brother, to countless men, women, children, and those who have not yet decided, and made sure, that however brutal they were in combat and reasoning, armed in flame, every being that holds claim to existing, has a home at his table, and under his roof. In this path of knowledge and guidance, Nethere became the father of two adoptive twin daughters. </p><p>The eldest, a child called Cleo, of blaze hybrid, and, Respawn ancestry, and married to the King of Demons. Her sister, the Lady Enesthema, is of wither and Respawn ancestry, like her sister, and she is the immortal goddess of travel, the patron guardian of a server, one of the Universe’s most astound gifts to players it favors, known as the Hypixel, and the Accountant of All Things, assisting her father in the documentation and preservation of everything living and otherwise. She watches over transportation through both the portal system, and other forms of inter-realm travel. She taught players the command codes, and is considered to be one of the primary founding admins of this reality. She is the founding descendant in a long line of renowned admins, her children each powerful individuals, that she, herself, favored with servers if their own, if they could prove themself on their own merit, as Enesthema did not believe in freeloaders.</p><p> She had a sister of her own to put up with, and that was more than enough for four centuries.  Ende’s triplet daughters and their descendants remain in their mother’s kingdom, even long after the feud surrounding the whole issue that their mother had attempted to take over the world and kill both her brothers, had been resolved. The eldest, a lady named E’ryre, is the Guardian Mother of the End, and a warrior devoted to the protection of her home, her family, and maintaining peace for her children and the legacy of her mother. E’ryre’s sister, the second eldest, by the name of Endestyre, was not one who could be contained by the limits of the End, and instead journeyed off in search of something else, and unfortunately, as all those who hail from the end, she began to forget. It was an affliction that affected each child of the Lady Ende, and was one that was unescapable, similar to that of her mother’s curse, doomed to her inheritance the moment of her birth. </p><p>However, before she forgot her family, her mother, her own home and how to return, and as a kindness to her, once it had reached the end of her mortal form, the Universe stripped her of her immortality, and allowed her to fade away to return to her father, so she would not have to forever walk the world aimlessly, constantly seeking something she cannot recall. Endestyre, left behind her three children to a sea-faring man on who’s vessel she had shared time with, who raised both the two older boys and the youngest daughter on his own after her passing. Myentel, Ende’s youngest, was banished for treason. It is not permitted for me to speak of her or her charge under order of Guardian Mother E’ryre, but know she was a woman of fine beauty, both mind, creed and soul, yet somewhere along those lines, she turned sour, and was expelled to Overworld, towards the North, to live in an eternal exile. </p><p>Terre, the eldest son, had fallen in love with a woman called Hellenia, this woman was the queen of an avian race, called the Elytrians, and she was both their queen, and protector. Apparently, she’d managed to win his heart because hers was pure, and good, and for several years, there was indeed peace. Before the Nether Wars began, a conflict that occurred so painfully long ago, not even the history books are certain as to whom started them, but they are of why they had ended. Hellenia’s species was becoming eradicated, her kingdom beginning to die out due to famine and the grief and damage that war had wrought upon all of them, as the avians were beautiful, incredible beings, the angels of the Universe itself. They were not designed to withstand pain, not to this extent, at least. So, they died from their hearts turning cold and their minds sour, and sickness creeping into more than just their bodies.  </p><p>Hellenia’s final act in battle, was the birth of her son, Phillip, who became an orphan the moment his mother took her last breath, and the last surviving avian in the universe. But this boy, a hybrid in nature, blessed with the gifts of an avian, and the blood of the immortals from his father, was important, for reasons that a baby could not understand, but the Universe knew, as it always did, since it had designed this, and it took pity on it's grandson. The Universe instructed the winds to bring the boy to safety, bestowing the child to an elderly warrior to raise. </p><p>This warrior was a heavenly protector of the natural order, and a ruler of the matriarchal Crystal City of Marie, a heavenly queen, one of the Universe’s favored, and Hellenia’s best friend in life, called Lady Nicolette Nihachu, and she raised the fallen avian prince alongside her own daughter and son, as if he was of her own blood. He remained in the City until he was full grown, and went in search of his own future, as Lady Nicolette had told him his family’s history, and he knew that his legacy lay in cinders in a crumbling palace, and the boy, with the guidance of the universe, who had begun to favor him, led him to a world of consequence, and had him seek out his own beauty, and his own fate as he saw fit, and gestured to the spance of the world with arms outstretched. The boy had decided to drop the title of Prince, as although he was both the son of a queen, and had been raised by one, the home that he belonged to was gone, so to him, he was no prince, anymore.</p><p>He was just a boy with a title he did not know what to do with, as it was not one to ever come to fruition. He began to go by Phil as he wandered, and it seemed to fit him, at least he believes, as he soars into the sky in search for a place to settle. And settle he did, and in the spance of fifteen years, the boy had created an empire, something that the universe told him made his mother and father proud of him, and he took delight in their pride, traversing the world and the realms of both his father, uncle and aunt, walking the line between this plane and the next, and the legacy of his forebearers, instead of being a palace, was becoming him and his own actions, which were things of valor and dedication, and the Universe smiled. </p><p>Phil was three hundred years old, when his first life was surrendered to a child, a dead, zombified child, who he had tried to save in life, but in death, held vengeance for him. When he awoke at The Respawn, he was met by a woman that looked just like him, humming something unrecognizable as she dresses his wounds. He stares into eyes as blue as the Caspian Sea, until she finishes her work, which is when she smiles, kisses him on the forehead, and before he knows it, he feels a pull, and he's back looking at the sun, and breathing in fresh, new air, as if he had never even left to begin with. When Phil becomes the age of five centuries, all those that raised him long dead, he becomes Philza, a terror of the skies, and a man who flirts with death, something which he finds, exceptionally amusing. </p><p>Philza becomes the first being besides an Enderling or an Enderling descendent to enter the End, outright for purposes other than murdering their Queen, and is greeted with the Wars of the End, a brutal territory battle of humans, Enderlings, endermen themselves, and the dwindling royal family descended of Ende, who he began to realize had been cursed by the Universe, to caretake their home, and watch their mother live in torture for eternity. The fighting raged for a twenty, extremely bloody mortal years, and took hundreds of thousands of lives, much to the agony of Philza, as he did not seek death, but for reasons that escaped him, death seemed to like him, as the Universe had given him a gift. But he does not know that yet, and will not even begin to comprehend said fact for centuries. </p><p>The war was put to rest after Philza, himself, fought the daughter of Ende, his cousin, E’ryre, who lost the match to a forfeit of choice, and they signed an armistice. This allowed the construction and creation of a city he had designed called, Endlantis. Which kept the Enderling civilization intact, and insure peace with those had dwelled there, which was not something that had existed since Ende’s imprisonment. The feud ending with an agreement between Philza, the son and legacy of Terre and Hellenia Minecraft, and E’ryre, the Guardian Mother of the End, and daughter of Lady Ende, herself, and Vergentelo, a son of the Voide. This agreement of peace between cousins healed the wounds of the past, and it seemed that they, as a family, would try and begin again. For a brief moment, spanning a few mortal centuries, Philza is allowed to rest, and build, and create bridges along with the expanse of Endlantis itself, between both avians and enderlings. The likes of which have not been seen in hundreds of years, but he feels the pull at something that tethers him to this plane of reality, and he realizes, that it is time, and he has to move on. For whatever reason, for Phil, at least, peace is not enough to keep him here, and even though he admires what he did, and is in awe of Endlantis and the family he’d created there, but he has to go, and the winds take him away, to somewhere else yet again. </p><p>For hundreds of years, he wanders, fighting the odd battle here and there, helping the odd stray child into finding their way, but even then, he never really was able to find a place to call home. He had one at the Crystal City of Marie, yes,  but that was centuries ago. He knows now he is just a story to those children. Maybe even a tragedy, he was an orphan, after all. The last remaining child of a once great empire, his mother once so renowned in battle, that she had won the favor of one of the immortal triplets, Terre, Phil’s father, and it was only the pain of her death that banished Terre away from the Overworld, not being able to bear to be without her, leaving his son on his own, and he never returned. Somehow, he settles himself down into a patch of land, and begins to plan the creation of the Ocean Monument, and for several years, he is kept busy with the construction and labor devoted to it. But even then, he knows something's missing, but he does not know what. Somehow, for reasons that terrify him, this uncertainty fades away, when the matriarch who controls the sea around him attacks him for what he is doing in her land, and he is forced to go to war once more, and he has never been so relieved in his life. For although it is violence, to him it is peaceful, and this conflict ends swiftly, with a compromise,  enough, at least, for a treaty. A treaty that requests the spirits of the sea are left alone from now on by both Philza and any blood relative of his for the extent of his existence in this reality, and that seems fair enough. </p><p>Centuries have passed, and the old gods have retired, returning home to their parent, as the worlds were massive, and infinite, and everything that needed creation, in their eyes, was already created, and so, they disappeared. Philza continued the upkeep of the ocean monument, and tried to remain in good contact with the sea nymphs that still remained, learning and adapting to their way of life, and slowly being instructed of his own history, and the lineage of his family by the Temple’s elders. It is here, where he is given the wings of an immortale. The gift presented quietly, and in the cover of night, and they are nothing short of divine, eighteen full feet of golden, silver and light-tipped azure plumage that curls and crescendos to heaven. Some of his feathers are indestructible, forged in his Uncle’s fiery hearth, and they are sharper than even a mortal netherite blade, becoming one the most fearsome weapons on the entirety of the Terre, comparable to even the weapo <em> Frühling, </em>the sword of Lady Marie Nihachu, the first liberated daughter who held court in the heavens as an Arcangelic Sentinel, brought to earth to become the founder of the matriarchal Kingdom of the Crystal City. Marie’s sword, kingdom, and title would belong to all her descendants, passing down  her lineage,  until the ends of time.</p><p>But birds are not ones to stay very long, anywhere, really. They must follow the winds, travel with the weather, and he began to feel the weather shift, and knew that it was becoming time to go, and the Universe, who had designed this, and was aware how restless it’s grandson was, and so, it accepted his request, and guided the winds to return home to Marie, where his return began when he when he first existed under his father’s name, and became known as Philza Minecraft. He remained there, allowing himself a small taste of life, acting as one of the citadel’s prized strategic minds, and remaining in the home of three generations of his adoptive mother's descendants, watching three rulers come and go, before Marie was threatened, and they were forced to go to war. For fifteen years, he fought, and in the dying years of this battle, he was joined by a warrior renowned on her own credit, by the name of General Kirsten Soot, of a neighboring kingdom called Haiten. Her home was not one of violence, nor was it one of heroic deeds, and terrifying tales of blood and scrimmage. It was a place of all things beautiful, of music, and performance, and their greatest achievement, being festivals so grand the skies and sea would feel as if they had been set aflame by a dozen tiny flames, the whole metropolis of Haiten glowing like it was the heavens itself, as for some, it seemed as if it was. But, General Soot, was nothing short but a woman of war, and a woman who’s heart ringed the edge of a blade, and traversed the world. </p><p>Despite both General Minecraft and Soot’s efforts, the citadel of Marie fell, and it burned brighter than even her home country of Haiten’s festival lights. And in an effort to save those who called Marie home, Lady Marina willed the quartz and obsidian walls be shattered, which gave time for nearly 5,000 civilians to escape, while the enemy infiltrated in order to save her people, and direct military attention to them, but Philza disagreed with her plan, and with General Soot, they created their own. It was here, on that battle field, where the Universe spoke to him, and told him that he was death, and he must claim what belonged to him, and that day, he felled nearly nine hundred soldiers, fighting in a blind rage, alongside General Soot. She fought just as angrily, trusted in keeping his six protected, as they both tore through the ranks, teaching those who wished to see Marie destroyed, a lesson, even though it wound up with General Soot falling injured. And as Lady Marina's husband hit the switch that blew the country to rubble, enacting the last step of the General’s plans, Philza wrapped his wings around her, and pulled her up into the night sky, the blast sounding faint from below them both, as they watch the stars in a dull, rapt silence, ears still ringing from the rage of the battle, arms wrapped around each other, as if in an attempt to protect from some unseen foe.</p><p>Both General Minecraft and Soot, after the fall of Marie, went on when they call, retirement, and wandered the world for years together, and gradually became more than just comrades in arms, and after thirty years of being in love, they got married. And seven years later, the Universe welcomed two twin boys into their home; Wilbur, and Theodore Soot-Minecraft. The eldest twin, Theodore, was the succeeding heir to both Philza and Kirstin's heritage. However, both were the princes of the long-extinct country of Elytria. Ten years later, after the family suffered the temporary disappearance of Theodore, the eldest twin, when both boys were eight, chaos and tragedy seemed to have left them in their eyes, and the Universe mourned its own design for a billionth time, for this was not the case, as they were to discover. </p><p>When the twins were each ten, Philza’s youngest, a Thomas Soot-Minecraft, was born, or, simply, Tommy, as Wilbur declared, he was not big enough for a big name yet, and they would make do with Tommy. Not a single one of his sons inherited his immortality, much to his agony. His sons each grew into men equally as renowned as their father, and grandfather, and as fierce as Lady Nicolette, and their mother, and each of his children went on to make him, and the Universe proud. Even after the death of his wife, the faint normality he once had vanished to the wind as the family buried an empty casket, as her body was never discovered by a single living soul.</p><p>Not that he needed one to know she was dead. Phil was the archangel of death, and he had married a woman who felt, in all rights of things, like the angel of creation, and he knew he would not be allowed to remain in her company for long, as death and life cannot coexist, but he treasured the times he had, even while he lies his wife to rest in a meadow on the top of a mountain. His two adolescent boys watching, his youngest in the middle twin's arms, and he can feel her leave them as she passes through into the <em> Respawn </em>. </p><p>To reiterate, in the beginning, you must understand, there was nothing, but the Universe willed there to be a something, and it was through it's design what happened, <em> happened </em>and that it wound up here. For good or worse. Because everyone is brought into this world with the knowledge that they are love, and the Universe loves them, and so it shall be until things are brought to an end. This is the prologue to everything known, and the continuance of the infinity, and will remain as such until civilization is wiped from reality as it is known.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>⏁⊑⟒ ⎍⋏⟟⎐⟒⍀⌇⟒ ⏃⍙⏃⟟⏁⌇ ⏁⊑⟒ ⏃⍀⍀⟟⎐⏃⌰ ⍜⎎ ⟟⏁'⌇ ☌⍀⟒⏃⏁ ☌⍀⏃⋏⎅⌇⍜⋏ ⍙⟟⏁⊑ ⍜⌿⟒⋏ ⏃⍀⋔⌇, ⏃⋏⎅ ⏃⌿⍜⌰⍜☌⟟⋉⟒⌇ ⏁⊑⏃⏁ ⏁⊑⟒⟟⍀ ⎅⟒⌇⟟☌⋏ ⍙⏃⌇ ⋏⍜⏁ ⍙⍜⍀⏁⊑⊬ ⍜⎎ ⊑⟟⌇ ⋏⏃⋔⟒, ⋏⍜⍀ ⏚⟒⏃⎍⏁⊬ ⍜⎎ ⏁⊑⟒ ☊⊑⟟⌰⎅'⌇ ⎅⍀⟒⏃⋔⌇.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i hope you enjoyed! i may do this again, there's a lot to explain kind of and i like making life difficult for myself! next chapter adheres to our narrative, this was just a fun little thing i did for minecraft mechanics and how they work in this story. have a wonderful week, and thank you so much for reading! i'll make sure to upload next chapter either wednesday or thursday, as i got a lot prewritten! thanks again!<br/>el &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. As It Was</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Something was wrong again. Something is always wrong around these parts. It seems to follow my family around like a stray puppy deprived of it’s mother, the thing latching onto the first replacement it can find, no matter what actions that replacement does to them, or much harm it brings itself.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello! this chapter has two songs, kind of, the first is 'as it was', by hozier, and the second, is called 'pacific', by sleeping at last, and for those of you who celebrate ramadan, (ramadan mubarak to you, by the way!) an instrumental version of the song 'pacific' is available. i love sleeping at last, and pacific is one of my favorite tracks, especially in relation to c!technoblade. i hope you enjoy! i'm hungrily awaiting the late april-may monsoons, because i love the rain and i live in a high desert, so rain doesn't happen much, especially during the summers, which are usually... dismally hot. i have still been watching criminal minds, and it's quickly becoming one of my favorites, so that's where i am with that. and hozier is just... this century's orpheus. in other news, i am catastrophizing about the upcoming lore with my brother, and the both of us agree we're all in for it, because there's a lot of loose ends, and they have to be tied off sometime in order to progress forward, which is writer for we are fucked. hold on to the bottom of your chairs. thank you so much for reading, and thank you so much for all of the appreciation and comments, it was such a joy to respond to all of them, and i'm glad you all have taken a liking to my work, and thank you so much for the 20 kudos, i got so excited i shared some of your comments with my mom, haha! anyway, have a wonderful rest of your day/night, and i hope april has been treating you all very well! &lt;3</p><p>cw: mentions of worsening mental health, mentions of rel*psing in relation to past alcoholism, mentions of a panic att*ck,  repeated mentions of abd*ction,</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>ACT I: The Deceit of Achilles</p><p>-TECHNOBLADE-</p>
<hr/><p><b>You are uneasy. Remember to breathe. Panic is bad, it is hard to escape. Keep yourself together. Breathe. </b>Something was wrong again. Something is always wrong around these parts. It seems to follow my family around like a stray puppy deprived of it’s mother, the thing latching onto the first replacement it can find, no matter what actions that replacement does to them, or much harm it brings itself. But we were not dealing with a puppy, we were dealing with something big, bad, and painfully human. Too much so, for my liking, because I was not. Not anymore, at least. My family knew that, not that they remembered, that was my mother’s thing, that woman could remember seven generations of her family’s history, tell it without references, and remember each of our babyhood statistics when we were born, such as timing, weight, that sort of thing. I never heard the end of it for years when she’d tell people that I was significantly smaller than my brother at birth, even though I had been born two minutes beforehand, and thus considered the eldest twin of us both. </p><p><b>It makes sense he would be a middle child… Would you shut up? Techno’s thinking! It’s rude to interrupt, you know that. </b> I blink rapidly, pushing their words away, struggling to focus on my own. Listen, I am not the best at human things. If you tell me, <em> Techno, you are human, what do you mean? </em> , I’ll tell you what, I don’t that makes much of a difference, I’m just not a people person. It’s not like I can’t comprehend emotion, it’s just… it isn’t my cup of tea? I don’t know. Regardless of that dysfunction, I am perceptive enough to understand when things are going wrong around me, and Pogtopia? I don’t know, it just felt… <em>wrong</em>. It felt like a lie, and I knew it was, I know my siblings better than those two fools know themselves, and they don’t understand the concept of sitting still and quiet and simply being content in their own heads. They don't understand how one has to try to carve their own home in their own minds, as I am a firm believer that finding belonging starts there, and moves out externally from their. They never got that chance. Hence the baby country. Hence my brother’s musical attachment he totes around with him like a lifeline, forever terrified he is of it being severed. Hence the youngest's habit to protect both the people and things he'd grown familiar with, with his life.</p><p>
  <b>He was a strange child,  and became an even stranger man, but are not blind to humanity’s deceit. You are of Immortal Blood, and hold the gifts of hell, whether you appreciate them or not. Do not forget this, child… You are too cryptic for my liking, let the boy speak. </b>
</p><p>I am not one to yell at others for lying if it does not directly harm me. If they are protecting an aspect about themselves through that lie, I can understand it. Although I wish they did not feel the need to hide it from me, but I have plenty of my own things that are hidden and buried.  I am well versed in the reception of lies from siblings, which is no big deal. I’ve done it, and continue to, and our father did the same and it’s the reason why he survived for so ridiculously long. But these such lies… they are made of cinder and blackstone, and the tips of arrows dredged out of my brother’s chest and thrown into a corner, left, lying to this day, and quite possibly long afterwards if Niki didn’t notice it, because Tommy won’t go anywhere it, Wilbur, as usual, pretends nothing’s wrong, and that can go on for years, until he blows up, and loses his shit. On that matter, that’s one of the problems I have with Pogtopia.</p><p>
  <b>It is called Pogtopia, what did you expect, perfection? … Lies… lies are what hurt us before, don’t let that happen again, you know how things get once they start to lie. Lies lead to betrayals, betrayals lead to suffering…Do not forget the wrongs of Eret… He is young, Technoblade, and your brother is all to accustomed to fear and death, the both of them are like fragile china, it does not take much to disrupt them, or spook them…  Like stray kittens?...Correct. Stray kittens is a good metaphor.</b>
</p><p>It feels to me that this whole thing is just a fraudulent pretend ideology of safety and reminiscent of those three’s times in their baby nation, although… it is no longer a child, or theirs, for that matter. The absolution of custody of L’Manberg, since I enjoy the baby country metaphor, is the entire reason why I am here. For their revolution, and you know what? Fuck it. I love revolution, it’s great. Shakes up the old foundations, wilts away at declarations of half-assed independence, I can light shit on fire, make my father, mama and brothers proud, it’s a win win, but something felt off. For me, I am willing to do a lot for my family, maybe too much, if I’m honest, but I am not willing to help if the cause they need for is just to use me and what had been forced upon me for their own gain. That makes me sick. It makes me think… that those who hurt me were completely right. That I am nothing but a tool, a <em> weapon </em> . Something that is only deemed beautiful when there is a need for it, and tossed aside when it is not. <em> They hum their approval, they like it when I oppose what I was told, by anyone, really, nobody tells me how to conduct myself but my father and myself, but the especially adore when I shit on the nonsense I was force fed until I could recite it unconscious.  </em> I do not need to be told how much I understand not wanting to be in my company, for it has been a thought of mine since I was eight years old. But, I do want to be in the company of both my twin and youngest brother. They are my home, and although I was a terrible big brother in so many fields, I want to keep them safe, <em>now</em>. I want to fix things, and I am trying as hard as I can to make it go even slightly back to normal for those two, but some things, are not meant to remain. Father told me tales of a city hewn of pure crystal, the glow still present in Niki’s eyes if the light caught them just right, and how although it was a gift from the gods to the first Arcangelic Sentinel who had won her freedom due to her service, the Celestial Lady Marie Nihachu, who I am pleased to say was one of my heroes growing up, and is the entire reason why I gravitated to crowns, along with my mother and grandmother.</p><p><b>Niki is very cool… Why did you feel the need to interrupt and say that? I mean, I agree, he is talking about the Nihachu’s, but why? </b>“Shut up, both of you. I need to think.” I growl, cracking my neck and taking a breath, stabilizing my thoughts. I don’t know, crowns are meant to be things of honor, and before learning about those ladies who are the reason why I am not deceased, I did not think I deserved it at all. But to honor them and alert strangers of who exactly they’re about to piss off, it is so much more than worth it. Although that city was a gift, the symbolic last presentation of Marie’s favor from the universe, it still fell. It still shattered into a million tiny pieces, and her protectors were forced to watch, now Manberg, or L’Manberg, whatever it is, has not shattered just yet, so they are different situations entirely. But my point is, is when Marie fell, they did not brutalize and strategize to get her back, they were simply thankful for a second chance. And I cannot fix either of my brother’s reasonings, they are not toddlers, although they behave like it at times, but I wish Wilbur was open to trying to compromise, or at least comprehend… I don’t know.  I don’t know about many things, if you couldn’t tell. Things I know are rotting holes into his mind, and corroding the love he harbors behind wide, brown eyes, that, once full of life, were fading, and almost opaque. Watching him fade away from me is not something I wanted to go through. Not this young. He has a son, he has so much keeping him here, why would he be so hell bent on destroying it all? </p><p>I know why. I have always known why. My brother, as wonderful a man that he is, is a selfish, dramatic man, who loses touch on reality easily, not that that is inherently bad, escapism is fine if used correctly, and to add to that, has always had quite a few screws loose, many I probably assisted in loosening. Not that I am any better, we are both three messed up peas in a pod, hence how little we all can get along. And if I base my judgement on what this shit did to Tommy, and how fucked up that poor kid is, it more than likely did something to him. Because this is not just diplomatic revolution, this is watching a man lose his mind, and it is not a pretty process. He is not a heavy drinker, he’s been sober since Sally passed, and he wouldn’t go back to that, I just know he wouldn’t. And he won’t fucking tell me anything, so I guess to snap him out of his narcissistic adolescent bullshit, where he’s acting as if he is above help, where in reality he is just so set in something, that to listen to anyone prattle on about something else, is like having glass shards raked down your spine. You want to escape it, you want to not listen, but it will imbed itself into your skin regardless, and constantly play on an agonizing loop, as if fangs had sunk themselves into flesh, the person he was trickling out into nothing, and becoming replaced with just a blank echo of what has to be done, or what he’s decided he must do. He’s a stupid idiot, who can’t fix a guitar without help because he’s afraid the strings will recoil and blind him. Whenever he helped our mama with the cooking, he’d run away from the stove whenever he added food into the frying pan so he didn’t get burned by any oil. He would hold me still when I was back there, not yelling at me if while thrashing I wound up hitting him, and he would sing and rock me back and forth as I cried, just so I knew I was safe. He would let me stab him just so he could see me smile, and play right back, us both trying to murder each other in various endearing different ways that made our mother nearly have a heart attack. </p><p>“Funny, I always thought it would be me who’d lose it. But, you have always been so ambitious. Fuck, I told you I couldn’t lose you, and I can’t help but think you took that as a challenge. Why do you have to be so competitive, you are twice the person I could ever be, Wil.” I say to no one but the wall, biting on my lip as I begin to feel tears, things I do not want to deal with in public, but they do not give me a say, and like April monsoons, tears begin to fall, but it feels like acid, or Greek fire, itself. Understanding is always terrible, especially in these instances, because I now know that my brother the is being driven only by trying to protect and reclaim something that no longer exists, and he will do whatever it takes, and I know that if he has to end it in a fire, then so be it. He will burn himself in the process.</p><p><b>He shall. For he has lit a pyre nothing of this realm can extinguish, and decided to call it his bed. Wilbur is a man who sleeps with the tendrils of flames, and grins when he feels his breath quicken, and the oxygen asphyxiated from him. </b> The voices breathe, sounding as if it was inches from my ear, a dull, disenchanted smile tugging at the corners of my lips. Dirty rotten arsonist, always stirring up trouble. That kid always liked fire, I should have known. I should have kept him from this, but then again, I am a part of the problem, or at least, in his eyes I am, and he is not wrong in the slightest. I am why father abandoned him and Tommy. I don’t know what to do here, either, but since I’m just fucking watching Wil’s making terrible choices, and how severely they degrade his already moth-eaten mind too fast for anybody to help him. Even Niki, who’s always been able to reach him in ways I could never, when the uncertainty of the absolution of his brother’s reasoning, clouded my judgement, and I conjure a blank. I will, more likely than not, be forced to fix the shit he’s dredged up, for both their sakes, and I fucking dread it. I know there is no way to do that without being forced to meet my brother with the goal in mind to destroy him, and I know my options are each terrible, and hurting him was something I had promised our mother to never do, but if I can keep him safe, than I suppose my rules around my loved ones can be broken. Even if it tears the rest of me apart, and rips me up at the seams, I will do whatever is needed to make it be right again, no matter how painful or how horrid those actions are, I will do them, all for the sake of preserving my brother. I will not allow myself to be helpless. Not again. I will not allow myself to be left behind, and I do not care who I have to harm to fix our family, because they are all I have. They are all who will take me as I am, and that is enough, I am more than grateful, but it is like the lapping of the tides. Their voices are telling me of their love for me, and the voices of those who I have hurt, are telling me that there is hatred behind them, and I am tired of trying to swim through belief of who I agree with, and who’s side I cling to. I am on my own side, for my own cause, and yes, I will fight. But I will fight for my brother back, not his country, and I will sacrifice their love of me, for their lives. When I was a child, not when I lived at home, when I was gone for a year and slept in my corner cell, unless I did something bad, which I have not been allowed to remember, but I am sure it had something to do with extreme heights, if my memory wasn’t mistaken. After If I did something bad, I got subjected to the heights-related thing for, I don’t know, maybe days? Maybe weeks? Time is not a concept I enjoyed. It holds no favor over me, not when it seemed to be constructed of acid, and other things of warped, malicious, intent, that had tore away at my skin. Afterwards, I know that they would make me hurt the other children, because I remember trying to resist, and the first few times, I did, until I realized that it just made everything worse, and they would be killed, regardless of my actions. </p><p>We were children. From homes and families that we had been ripped away from. All of us terrified and scared witless and for good reason. I'd learned quick that protecting those kids, could not be done if I simply refused to do what was asked of me. For if I was not the one to end it, it would simply hurt them more, and I couldn’t have that. No one deserved to suffer. So, I learned to put on a show, entertain those who had taken us, and trick them into thinking they had won, while I’d execute whichever poor soul had been selected that day as kindly as I could. I know then I’d ask them their names, and promise them I’d tell their families, but now I can’t remember even a syllable, just ghostly flickers of their faces. Forgetting them felt bitter and rotten, and I hated myself for it. They deserved remembrance, they deserved to go home, like so many other kids, but they didn’t. And they never can, not with their bodies having been thrown into the vast lake of lava and incinerated, lost to the pages of history, as if they were insignificant blots on a page. And for a long while, that seemed to work, and they never questioned me on it. Not once. Why would they? For they were greedy and cruel, and saw only the terror that they had created. Delighting in my violence and pain, taking pride in each of my <em> executions </em>, if I did it well. They were kind to me if I did what they asked, and that sometimes made them redeemable, even slightly. But I couldn’t do it when it came to the other kids.</p><p>Not when each of them reminded me of my brother, in a million tiny ways, and since I thought I would never come home, because my family could never find me there, it felt like with every execution, I was killing a part of my brother, and laying what made me apart of my family to rest. It was painfully easy, just compartmentalizing them away, but that way when I looked in a mirror, my first thought was the bags under my eyes and blood caked on my skin, and not of my brother, which was a gentle relief. There was a bit of him in everything I’d ever done, because, like you’d expect of twins, we were inseparable, so it was hard to not think of something good without thinking about him, but then… I’d gone and gotten us separated for good, and back then I thought he must’ve hated me for that, and he did now, sometimes. And that was fair. Sometimes, I see flags of that behavior and rotten manipulation in my brothers when they speak of me in passing, as if I am something to brag about. And it genuinely feels like I am nothing more to them than some novelty, and that is as vile as if I was being forced to live through all that bullshit again. But if I can be my own, and if I can mold the fates in the way I please, and take blood when I dictate is correct, I can be no one’s weapon but my own, and that is but a small justice for my being here and willing to die for them. It is but a small assurance while I live in a cave with an dying star, and a wounded, once-brazen, small, little animal. The question I’m trying to ask, I guess, is would they protect me in the same ways I had done for them, or would it just constantly be a give on my end, and a take on theirs? </p><p>Shoving that discourse aside for the time being, I rise from the table, slouching my cape over my shoulders, strapping my sword onto my belt and taking up my trident from where it rests in the corner. It lies parallel to the arrow that, a month prior, had claimed my brother’s second life, all of us not wanting to go anywhere near it, so it remains here, as a bitter reminder of what we'd all hoped to forget. I huff, conjuring the skull mask from my inventory interface, and lacing it below the beginning of my braid as I begin to ascend the stairs, making sure my pickaxe was not only in my inventory, but easily accessible and that everything I needed for today was there, and tucked where I’d left it last night. It was a small assurance that my idiot kid brother hadn’t been taking my shit again, so I don’t have to go and hunt him down in the middle of the afternoon. I slouch, ducking under the overhang, and making sure to return the painted piece of plywood to where it belongs. It was a pretty half-assed solution to keeping Pogtopia as secret as possible, I know. It was Tommy and Wilbur’s collective big-brain idea, what did you expect? Oddly enough, however, it had worked, and any sentry or scout efforts on Manberg’s behalf to locate my brothers in the case that they were violating the rules of exile, which, I think, correct me if I’m wrong, (I was paying no attention when Wilbur gave me the tour during that part, in all honesty) but, apparently, that is execution-worthy, and… I would not enjoy any of that, even though that feels a bit, dramatic? Like what do they think we’re doing, preparing for a revolution and acquiring spies to take down a corrupt government from inside a badly furnished cave loft?</p><p>Yes. Yes, that’s exactly what we’re doing. I’m starting with the construction of something I’ve decided to call, 'the Vault', because you can never not be over prepared, and knowing my siblings, this thought will simply not cross their minds. I take my shovel from my inventory, and get to digging, trying to get a respectable depth so no stray creepers can blow a hole right through my future ceiling, which, however comedic, would be not the fucking best. I replace the blocks once I’ve dug a chasm deep enough for me to stand in comfortably, continuing, quietly as I hum under my breath, pulling a torch from my inventory and placing it against the wall, huffing from the strain, and the relief of my thoughts of contribution fading away, is gone. Because they have returned right in time to ruin my digging, which was just becoming relaxing, by the way, why am I never allowed to win. But, back on that topic, I guess it’s the want to help them and the revolution out, yeah. That’s forty percent of the reason I’m here, but it is also me pulling my weight. And trying to show my own worth in the best way I know how.  Because how else are others supposed to see my own worth unless I make sure it does not turn transparent and sour? I don’t know if that makes any sense, but I liked it. Saying it sounded soft, like the gentle caress of Wilbur’s fingertips against my skin as he plaited my hair calmly, and perfectly, down my back, and tied it off with a bow of twine I knew wouldn’t stay, but… maybe that was his point. Maybe that was what I was failing to understand about him , I think, as I angrily remove another block from the ground, moving swiftly, and with purpose, trying to block it out, because that’s bordering on childhood side effects, and, respectfully, I simply cannot do that tonight. I have a fucking revolution to begin to prepare for, and a Vault to dig. It’s quiet down here, which is increasingly different from the above, and in a way it feels almost familiar, as if I was in the arms of a relative, the walls around me humming, radiating something unseen, and it feels as if the anxiety clogging the back of my throat is slowly clearing up, like the clouds after a snow storm. It was… calming, and yet, strangely reassuring, and slowly, my brain dwindled away from bad things, to the plan of my Vault, which, thank heavens, were not thoughts that bit or screamed, they were thoughts that simply existed without casualty or calamity, and it felt like taking a breath of fresh air on the tops of the highest mountain peak.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you so much for reading! i absolutely love writing for technoblade's character, and i hope you've enjoyed!<br/>i have big plans for this, and applaud all of you for hanging around for the ride, it means the absolute world.<br/>love you all, and thank you again,<br/>el &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Clair de Lune</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The meaning of my own life, was something that I had tried so hard to discover, yet was not something I was yet to be given the chance to understand. In this life, if things had gone differently, I would have been queen when my mother passed, and that would have been my life, but it isn’t.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello, there! this chapter's song is called 'clair de lune', by flight facilities. beautiful song, i play it on loop a lot, if i'm honest. i was meant to get this out days ago, so i am so sorry for the delay, i went on a camping trip with my friends for one of their birthdays to utah, and had absolutely no service, hence the delay, and why i am uploading this at nearly 2:30am in the morning. there aren't any monsoons yet, but they're starting, i can feel them in the air. happy pink moon, by the way, i spent some time on my porch tonight and the night was absolutely stunning, being home is nice, too, being on the road for six days is a lot for my silly anxious brain to handle, so being home is good i would say. anyways, enough about that, in other news, me and my brother were absolutely correct about the lore, which we are both proud of. again, thank you so very much for reading, all the attention this fic is getting is so amazing, thank you all so incredibly much !!</p><p>cw: mentions of past violence, and some mentions of blood and mental toll of war. my brain is a bit fuzzy due to not sleeping because rvs are hard to get comfortable in, especially with two other loud teenagers, so if i am forgetting anything that you think needs to be tagged, please feel free to let me know!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>ACT I: The Deceit of Achilles</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-NIKI-</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Pogtopia’s returned to her customary deadness. It’s a common theme around these parts; coexisting in complete and total silence, like those that follow after explosions, or in our case, the absolute shit storm of emotional displays the three brothers try to hold with each other, and each time, don’t do a good job at remaining civil. Such as the discussion between Wil and Techno that had rocked the cavernous walls of Pogtopia not even five minutes previously. I mean, I was proud of them both, even that was progress, and, not to mention, more communication they’ve had since Kirsten died, but I mean, it wasn’t like I could blame them. Those boys were not taught how to healthily express their feelings or concerns to each other in a way that wasn’t compulsive or incredibly sudden and aggressive, hence the way both the twins, the little one, and Tubbo have grown up, and who they’re each growing into, as my wife could argue that they had not yet grown up yet, which made too much sense, but then again, it honestly just isn’t my place. I’m not their parent, just a friend, and my mother wasn’t exactly perfect, either, so I understand it to an extent. Not exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>their </span>
  </em>
  <span>dilemma, per se, but one that fits the bill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For now, I know for sure that both twins have left the perimeter due to the airwaves no longer tremoring in a resounding fear. They need space from each other, probably, especially so they don’t start beating each other up, so I am left on my own. Labored with the job of making sure Wil won’t self destruct on our watch, which I was still on the fence for, especially after… whatever that was, because it feels restrained and yet painfully honest, and I don’t know if what he said about his state was something we could trust. I push my energy into those directions, insuring that we have an actual comprehensible plan for what’s going on and how we’re to handle our offense to try and take over a government, which, fun fact, is not as easy as you’d think. </span>
  <span>Listen, you have to remember that I’m the daughter of a long line of matriarchal rulers, and yeah, our city, the great Marie may have fallen when my mother was in her twenties, and I have only seen the ruins and memorials when my grandmother took me to see it when I was a toddler. And I know full well that the titles that went along with that place are long dead and gone, I’d seen the repercussions of that loss more times than I cared to admit flickering across the faces of my relatives when I asked about it as a child. But because of it, I understand the give and take of politics. I have learned what it takes to run a nation from both my mother and Wilbur, back when L’Manberg was still in it’s founding stages, nearly almost eight years ago, now. </span>
  <span>I’d served as the Captain of Wilbur’s Presidential Guard, in battle, and in politics, until the day I fled Schlatt’s new bullshit known as a tax decree , so I know governmental in and outs like a solved crossword puzzle on the back of the daily paper. So, it is safe to say, I knew the signs of complete and total political disaster when I saw it happening, and what exactly caused my family’s to crumble to rubble and ash. I knew how that symphony ends, and I know how it effects all of those who once belonged to it,  and for some blood curdling reason, it felt like that was what was happening here. They were doing nothing to preserve how she was when those kids grew up, and instead are just careening towards doomsday faster than an arrow ricketing from a bow. I couldn’t let it continue, not for much longer, anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moreover, I am not one to sit around and let things be done for me, I am the daughter of warriors and matriarchs, and I am not afraid of getting my hands dirty, for I was not made to idly sit home and watch others do my work, because that is not what I am, and it will never be. So I guess it’s time to come up with a solution to our problem, and fix this shit, like what I should done from the beginning. Don’t get me wrong, I adore Wilbur and Techno, they’ve been my friends since birth, and I’ve known Tommy for that kid’s entire life, so much so that Wil made me both Fundy and Tommy’s honorary godmother, but they are not good at this kind of shit in the least. They are excellent at being compulsive and giving out ultimatums like candy, but this is strategic, and although that is a strength, having the energy to actualize it, is not something they’re inherently aware of. Especially recently, as they seem more, I don’t know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fragile</span>
  </em>
  <span>, than usual. Could just be a rumor, but I doubt it. I might be short and a bit on the silent side, but I’m definitely not an idiot. </span>
  <span>I’ve seen it in the ways Wilbur flinches, sometimes. When he’s alone, when he’s with others, it doesn’t really matter, he just always seems so terrified at something so unseen, yet so equally terrifying, as if the walls were moving, and the shadows contained beady little eyes and cruel smiles, trained on him. He’s smoking like a chimney, too, and smells like someone’s mourning pyre. Something that, before, of course, he wouldn’t do. Not with him being both an asthmatic, and a singer, but now… he doesn’t seem to care. Doesn’t seem to notice the blood anywhere but on those around him, even though, he, himself, is bleeding out. He can be condensed into the before, and the after, and if this was the aftermath of his exile, after the fallout from what all the other afters had led to, it was not going to be cut-to-the-quick, oh, no. It would be fiery, and bloody, and angry, and he would call it resolve, for his own mind, while in reality it will just set us on a path to ruin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I watch as Technoblade not only separates from his brothers again, but also as he struggles for his own redemption that his family simply cannot understand is needed by them, especially not after the mess that is the brothers’ past. I’ve heard it from Wil countless times, heard it from him the moment Techno left the room, even, as he scribbled, angrily in his notebook, addressing it to his father, and tucking it into his pocket. I could comprehend why Techno didn’t understand why the things that set Wil off, did, and I could see he didn’t understand why he was railroaded, even though he had come to help us, but… as thick as blood may be, quarrels and one’s past, is thicker, and they have yet to even mull through their childhoods, so how could those two possibly begin to understand each other as adults? </span>
  <span>I talk to Tommy in the nights, sometimes. When it’s late, and we both know full well we should be asleep, but for reasons we don’t have to disclose, because we </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>the reasons why we’re both awake. We are five years apart, both children when we fought alongside Wilbur, and both just children when we became far too well acquainted with punishment, loss and death, and you know what, yes. We were comfortable living in the lies of paradise, watching the first child of L’Manberg grow up, and nurture him with every breath from our lungs, convinced we could fix it, and he would not have to follow the same path we inevitably had, but that is put to rest with the crayon uniform, and his father’s old rifle slung across his back that is almost taller than he is, but he wears it proudly, and does not complain under the weight, knowing full well there are far worse burdens to shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I suppose the differences between me and Tommy, is that I have learned that L’Manberg isn’t paradise, and it never was, not really. Tommy, however, he has not grasped that, and at this rate, that kid never will. He is too content in living in the days of hot chocolate and the smell of rain, for he has seen too much gunpowder, and lost both lives and people, and he is tired, but the kid is perceptive, too much so for his age, almost. I know he knows what’s going on, because another difference to me is, he is so much taller, like his brothers, but a similarity, along with trying to be the best Fundy could ever ask for, is that he is absolutely no idiot. </span>
  <span>I have not spoken to Jack in months. Not sure where he’s gone, either. He seemed to leave months before the election, saying he needed a ‘vacation’, and would be back when he’d recovered, and nobody stopped him, not after… what happened. But, truth be told, I’d missed him. We were born six months apart, give or take a few days, and he had fought by my side since the beginning of all of it, and protected me in both battle, and on the L’Manberg congress floor. He was a friend, someone I’d trusted with my life, and would, still, to this day. So when he was nowhere to be found when I’d been basically been put under house arrest with fucking Eret, my second least favorite human on earth, it was a bit… hmm, I don’t know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>irritating</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But I don’t blame him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If I could go home, I would. But, that place, is not one I am welcome, and I had made my home with Wilbur and Techno, long before L’Manberg was even a concept, and to abandon them, would leave me alone with nobody but myself. Which isn’t exactly true, although it would feel like it. As of a year ago, I have a fiancé, who means the absolute world to me. But she is like my own mother was for the majority of my childhood. Always in search of something she does not remember, or even understand, and loving someone who is like that… as beautiful as that love is, it is harsh and often demanding, although it is something I will continue to fight for, even if it takes every last breath I hold in my lungs. For what good is war, if we are not fighting for someone, and what good is violence, if we do not have the occasional eclipse of both pain and love? Life has to have meaning somehow, you know, no matter how said meaning is attained. </span>
  <span>The meaning of my own life, was something that I had tried so hard to discover, yet was not something I was yet to be given the chance to understand. In this life, if things had gone differently, I would have been queen when my mother passed, and that would have been my life, but it isn’t. And I thought L’Manberg could have replaced that, and Eret could have replaced my stupid need for a father figure, and the Soot-Minecraft brood a replacement for my family, but I was naive. None of that was allowed to last, and even if I tried my best to fix it, to be something comforting, we were all too brutalized, and there was no going back. Each of them had watched their own Crystal City of Marie plummet and decay, in some form of another. Everyone around me had felt the stinging nettle of loss, and I watched as it still left it’s mark on them, gripping onto their wrists and holding them back in the moment, taking delight when Tommy and I told tales of the same torture in the kitchen in the wee hours of the night. Tales of war, and blood, and sickness, and things that we could not address, for if we did, it would only hurt us both, the pain of admittance and retelling sometimes worse than the pain of experience. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eret was one of these such subjects of what falls under the category of pain. They were with us when we declared independence, and they were with us when Sapnap lost his cool and went on one of his several murder rampages, killing my pets, and setting fire to anything the blaze hybrid knew was flammable and would leave a mark. They’d been there for Fundy when Wilbur couldn’t, in the height of both his own grief and war, and offered both him, myself, and the boys stability, which was something that Wil has never been very good at, and we were happy. Or, maybe just I was, but Eret was our family. I think that’s why it hurt so much more when we discovered they were a traitor. It was unforgivable. It stung more than one of Tubbo’s bees, and it tore my heart in two, watching them parade around L’Manberg with that stupid crown. That fucking crown, that for some reason, was worth more than we were to them. Was power really that important? So much so, that it was worth the betrayal of their friends? I hoped I was not just something to throw away, but Eret proved we were, and Schlatt solidified the idea with the exile and banishment of both Wilbur and Tommy, so maybe… that’s all we were, and that’s why I have to force myself to take the role of someone in power, so I make them know I am worth more than just silly follies and jokes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, if all that had went down, why was I going to Eret now? It didn’t make sense, from any standpoint, but they kept me safe when I was in captivity under a fucking presidential order of Schlatt’s after I had, quote-on-quote, ‘run my mouth’, to Schlatt about his stupid tax bill. I was already a person of interest, given my ties to the Soot-Minecraft’s, a fact Schlatt knew full well, because we’d grown up together. Both my, Wilbur and Techno’s, and Jay’s mother having tea together nearly every Saturday afternoon, and for years, it was just me, Jay, and the twins, but… not anymore. We’d grown up, you could say, to a point where not even tea parties could fix our separation, and since both Schlatt’s mother and Kirstin was gone, there was no way of resolving our shit. </span>
  <span>But, even through all of that, being privy to Schlatt’s cruelty to both himself, his own son, and the man he’d married, Eret kept me safe and allowed me to keep in communication with my fiancé and her estranged stepsons. That was not done to gain my trust, that was simply done because they wanted to keep me safe, I suppose. Which, was a hard thing to grasp, but if I thought it through, it began to make sense, however obscure that sense may have been. They had tried to redeem themselves in the past, I knew that, mostly just of Wilbur’s blatant refusal and anger, mirrored in both his son and brother.</span>
  <span> I knew they had held me back to keep me out of the crossfire when Wilbur and Tommy had to flee. I remember how they had calmed me down, and dragged me away from the cruel, degrading laughter of Schlatt, and tried his most to keep me safe, which… was forgivable, if not, even just a bit, redeemable, to me, at least. So, maybe… just maybe, they’d figured out that power is not people, and maybe I deserved to give them a chance, because we needed help, and, quite honestly, had nothing left to lose. You can’t overthrow a leader who has been expelled from a country, and on the matter of betraying them, I don’t think Wilbur would let him get close enough. And besides, if they rat us out, I’ll just kill them. I see absolutely nothing wrong with that. As they always say, an eye for an eye, you know? </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The return to their castle is a brutal one, the light from the castle’s beacons shining, even from this distance. It’s cloudy out, too. The rain, according to Techno’s report on the weather he’d given me this morning, was destined to return later tonight, as well as the rest of the week, until Saturday. I am convinced the gods are determined to flood the entirety of the L’Manberg valley, which is understandable, I can just hope it is not the doing of me and Puffy’s boys, they’ve done enough damage to their mother’s nerves to last four whole centuries. </span>
  <span>The river is to my left, the water roaring, as the rapids are in full swing due to the constant monsoons that had been up and down both our valley, and the village to the south west of us, West Lake. The world seemed to shine anew, as if it had been cleansed of all things horrid. The foliage and animals seemed to notice, and were in the midst of rejoicing that fact. Birds flitting to and from trees, a wood pecker sounding from the distance, as the pine and maple trees seem to close in on me, hiding away the cloudy sky and the storm clouds raging in the north. I stop dead in my tracks as I catch glimpse of a buck in the river, watching me, silently. His herd scattered up and around the furthest bank of the river, each of them pretending I was below them, while each of them train a lingering eye on me, and for a moment we freeze, and I lower myself onto the ground in a quiet, non-threatening crouch, staying quiet, and watching. He seems to have realized I am not a threat, for he lowers himself into the water, and looks at me, and I swear he nods at me, signaling I was free to go on my way, like a king dismissing his subjects. I suppose, it would be good to listen to who ruled this valley far before humans had laid claim, so I rise, and continue my way through the forest, humming gently, and scanning the trees for a stray skeleton or creeper, thanking my lucky stars that there appears to be nothing but a gaggle of raccoons being extremely loud over the rights of a hollow tree. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Our valley is beautiful and the river even more so. It’s beauty enhanced by the rain and the diluted light from the cloudy day, each breath feeling fresh and new, and bountifully rejuvenating. It is a temporary distraction from the deal I’m about to make with a traitor, someone who I had sworn to never ally with again, but war makes people do what is necessary. And if they were able to help, Wilbur would have to hold his tongue and check his ego. I am aware of what was done in the past, but we have a war to win and a corrupt, ruinously alcoholic ram to dethrone, and sooner would be far more preferable then later. My plan was not necessarily the most risky thing in the world. Eret openly disliked authority, and disobeying it was a passion of theirs, left over from a long adolescence of deviancy, and running from server admins. If I could negotiate this right, play my cards correctly, it’ll just be like another game of doubles solitaire with Wilbur, easy to figure out once you’ve memorized his plays, figured out which suits he’s most partial too. It should be a piece of cake, and even though I’m a temporarily retired baker, a knife could solve my problems just as quickly then negotiation ever could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I find myself glancing over my shoulder, holding my breath as I the structure of the castle becomes clearer and clearer as I make my way towards the river delta, and the city center, and, of course, Eret’s castle. I’ve gotten close enough for a sense of alarm to course through me, wrapping a death grip around my heart and scraping at my nerves, our old L’Manberg flag still remained, which was a single pocket of relief. But it seemed </span>
  <em>
    <span>off… </span>
  </em>
  <span>and worrying. The flag seemed, I don’t know, not as crayon-colored as it had before. The community house is over in the distance, voices echo from far away and I flinch, stopping dead in my tracks, my fingers wrapping around the edge of the castle wall, as I made sure to check the horizons around me, so I was dead sure not a single soul was behind me, before I creep through the grand entrance, and push open the door, shutting it, quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I unsheathe my sword, holding it at my side, ready to impale it into anyone who crossed my path, my eyes alert, and roaming, searching for any sign of a threat. Not much had changed, barely anything, really, save a few muddy footprints I recognized belonging to Fundy tracking through the halls, two pairs of shoes at the entrance, and both Eret’s raincoat, and Fundy’s, hanging on hooks by the front entrance. The domestic feel of it feeling unnatural in a castle. I tear my eyes from the tiny rain coat, and gasp when my own face and those of my family and comrades, held forever in time in paint, stares back at me. My own is touched with a gentle smile, and a calm expression held in painted-me’s eyes. Softened by the navy blues and fiery reds of my now-decomissioned, L’Manberg uniform, a silver badge pinned to my breast pocket, bearing the crest of L’Manberg, which was a medal of military and political service, presented to each of the founders who had served in the Independance War, the L’Manberg flag hanging in the background. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The frame, like each one that had been hung to the wall, is ornate, golden, and floral, with a brass plaque bearing both my name, birth titles, and title I’d gained under the L’Manberg cabinet, the whole thing is mounted to the wall beneath it. Jack’s is to the left of mine, on the very end, a rifle slung over the left of his shoulder, and a goofy, ridiculous grin plastered across his face that, even now, makes me laugh. Eret’s is next to mine, but since they had not yet gained their crown here, instead, a circlet of roses sat atop their head. Their smile shines, beaming, and looking absolutely radiant, even though their smile touches my heart in bitter regret, and I force myself to tear my eyes away from the painting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur’s is in the middle, his slightly larger, fit for a president, he’d say. His hand clasped gently on the folds of his collar, hand hoovering over his left breast pocket, his eyes wistful, and smile steady. Tommy’s is next to Wil’s, identical in size; a rifle posed over one shoulder, the boy grinning proudly. Fundy’s is directly next to his uncle’s, and posed almost identically to his dad, the boy beaming, proudly displaying his two missing teeth. Tubbo’s is on the end, donning a stupid smile I remember him telling me he regretted the moment after it was finished. His smile plastered across the canvas, doomed to remain on display for hopefully decades later, because that would be simply hilarious. His axe is slung over his shoulder, but even paired with that completely ridiculous, goofy smile of his, and the small little ears and tiny recognition of horns that just barely poke through his hair, cannot dampen the threat of him with his axe, the blade seeming crueler and sharper once painted. A small, bee lapel pin right next to the flag patch sewn onto his uniform, the bug just barely visible, painted in not even two or three strokes, but the artist had still managed to fit it in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To see the portraits, all together, how we had not been for years, </span>
  <em>
    <span>burned</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And to see Fundy’s raincoat hung next to Eret’s burned even more so, because knowing that we had been replaced by Eret, was something that burned like hellfire against my cheek. Even though I would not blame that little boy for trying to find family in the company of others, no matter what he had to do to achieve it. But he wasn’t a little boy anymore He knew right from wrong, his father had raised him on stories of morals, and he’d grown into a right well aligned young man, and yet… he was working with Schlatt. I will never understand any of those Minecraft boys, never. Each one of them are just as odd and secretive, and identical in some of the most frustrating damn ways, and it is hard to make any sense out of any of their doings. But, things rarely make any sense anymore, so I bite my tongue, and clear my thoughts, making my way as silently as possible to the throne room, where Eret sits, lonesomely, reading, all on their own, on their throne. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lighting is low, tall beeswax candles of Tubbo’s creation sitting atop ledges and the dais, the chandelier on a low dim setting, the fireplace crackling and popping rather angrily. The sound of thunder booms around the valley, probably from the storm clouds coming from the North, near the Badlands, which always proves to be a doozy. The sudden noise makes them look up in a sudden fright, their eyes settling on me, shoulders dropping in a gentle relief. They sigh, a fragment of a relieved smile dappled across their face, before they push their sunglasses up on the bridge of their nose, calming their expression that was once of of worry, into one of austerity and unaffected silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A dark bruise lays against the curve of their jaw, which I had put there before I’d ran from them, and was more than happy to see it had left a definite mark. Eyes shining out at me like a fucking searchlight, everything about them considerably more unnerving once you realize that is genetic. I’d met their father, and that’s something I never want to ever do again, I mean he’s a wonderful man, very respectful, just unnerving and absolutely terrifying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you here to threaten my life again, Niki? Because if so, know I am simply not in the mood today. You are more than welcome to come back later.” I smirk, chuckling and shaking my head, knowing they were full of it. I’d watched their expression, I knew this was just another lie, and in all honesty, wasn’t helping my need to reconcile, and if anything, it was making it worse. I’m trying to forgive you, buddy, not get mad at you for betraying my friends. Get with the fucking program, already. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> “No, Eret, I don’t have time to come back. Besides, you’re in luck. I’m not here to beat you up again. But, I do want to make a deal with you. I, well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span>, need your help.” I say, taking a deep breath, and meeting their eyes, trying to push away my rage, and the flickers of fear that forces Tommy to cross his arms over his chest, holding himself together. Trying to be as gentle as how newly sewn suture is on a wound, and if you pull, or exert yourself too heavily, the stitches will tear out, and he would crumble. But that fear was not his own, it had been put there with help by the person in front of me, and into all those who had been trapped and slaughtered in that room, unleashed into a blood bath without their knowledge. I wanted to slap the smile right off Eret’s face, but in order to work together, if I have to carve a hole in my chest and plant my fear and bury away my anger, then so be it. What is but more blood on my own hands?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm. I see. Well, take a seat. I’m sure we have a lot to catch up on.” Their voice, deep and thunderous, booming louder than the thunder coming from the storm clouds towards the north, makes me smile, for some reason, and yes, in this moment I am ashamed. I am ashamed that I allowed myself to walk into their trap, and that I could dare to take joy in their company, but I find myself grinning, and lie my ties to the boys back in the cavern to rest, and take my seat, watching as confusion and something that seems to be comprehending flashes through Eret’s face, and I feel like we have come to an impasse. A compromise, if you will, and I sigh, cracking my knuckles and holding my face in my hands, taking a moment to gather my thoughts, before I begin to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eret, I’m going to cut to the chase, here. You're the only other person I can trust with this, because nobody else trusts </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so I have nothing to worry about in that field, but Pogtopia needs your help, so what do you need from me in return?” The words come fluidly, and I make sure it is nothing but the truth, nothing but what needs to be said in that moment, and I can tell, due from the moment Eret flinches away that they have been caught off guard, which, in my book, at least, means I have succeeded in this whole charade of mine, and the deal is afoot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s it? No grand ultimatums? No threats? Just a 50/50 trade-off? You are aware of what I did to you and your friends, correct?” They ask, wringing out their hands and staring me down, confusedly. As if they had absolutely no idea what was happening, or why it was being handled as such, and in all honesty, for the most part, neither do I, but I am trying to be fair, because what happened in the past cannot matter now. We have so much to lose, and we need help, quickly, before it devolves into nothing but stretched out, and avoided agony. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eret, that stings. They are not simply </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>friends, and they never were, they were </span>
  <em>
    <span>ours</span>
  </em>
  <span>, until your traitorous ass locked them in a blackstone box and unleashed my stepson and his friends upon them. Do not think for a second I have forgotten, because your cheek would not be bruised in the way it is at this current second if I had. And besides. I am here to negotiate with a king, and as the last royal legacy daughter of my mother. We understand each other just a bit better than the others. Diplomacy has always been our strong suit, so I met you in the middle presenting it to you with a smile. Now, could you consider doing the same for me?” My tone is scalding, like boiling water, yet I try to turn into liquid mercury, as a clever disguise, and at the last possible second, which, I realize as their features fall and they turn towards the floor, that it’s worked. I take a heated breath, allowing myself to calm down, regaining my composure. I cling to the upperhand of the conversation they’d just handed to me on a silver platter, which I don’t think would be too difficult, because I don’t think Eret wishes for me to see them as a threat, so… looks like for the first time in quite awhile, that the luck is on my side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… We are of an accord. State your business, Lady Nihachu.” They clear their throat, straightening their back, and regaining the composure of a king, eyes scanning me, waiting for my response like a child awaiting the chime of twelve on St. Nicholas’s day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wonderful. King Eret, I come to you requesting aid for the homestead of Pogtopia, as we have embarked upon the effort of a revolution, and are, if you’ll allow my honesty, dreadfully unprepared. I stand in the presence of an exiled leader that exists in shame, and, fuck, Eret… we need help. Emotions are running high, Techno’s potato farm and Phil’s reserves from when the boys were younger is stringing us along, but we don’t have much longer, much less not for the revolution and upheaval we wish to cause. So, I come to you, asking for you aid, in exchange for a request of your own, that, I will assure you, I make it happen.” It’s the most I’ve spoken to Eret… in years, really, and being so incredibly honest with them… feels, I don’t know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>foreign</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But I am glad to see it do the trick, and I am glad to see the gears turning in their mind as they begin to weight out the words I had just spoken. As if considering each one, and that was understandable. If they were to do this, who knows what would happen to both themselves and their kingship. It appears they knew that, or at least I hope they did. But, maybe, if they had really improved with time, that would explain their expression of peaceful surrender, and why I suddenly felt at ease, as if I already knew internally the choice they’d made before I’d ever even heard it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have offered them aid already and been refused. Why is time any different? Wilbur and Tommy hate me, and the bruise on my cheek proves you do as well. What makes you think he'll agree to this?” I sigh, yawning as I wait for my own resolve of strength. It would make sense that this would stand in their way of a decision, honestly. I understood that. But, there are some things that he understands are out of his control, and if Eret helps us win the war, there is no reason to be angry, because we’ve achieved what their little revolution is trying to rebuild, so I suppose it is worth to take the chance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wilbur doesn't have too. I'm a general, remember? I hold some authority, however previously dissolved under Schlatt. Which brings me to the next point, Wilbur is not the president, and Pogtopia, as of now, is simply a militia, so… I’m breaking no laws. I’m just taking the initiative and make sure we come out on the flipside unscathed. And besides, what Wilbur doesn't know, won't hurt him.” If I faltered at the end, I pretended I did not, and apparently, they were gracious enough to do the same. I hated this. I hated not informing Wil of what I was doing, but in this moment he irrational, and mentally wounded, and I have to give him space to cool off after what went down with Technoblade this morning. But, I’m doing this for them. I’m not doing this for power, or a crown, I already have that, and I made it on my own dime, carved in the metal of my own sword. I am doing this to get our home back, and I will do what it takes to do so, even if what I do is not something I enjoy. After all, I was a warrior first, and a baker, second, and I suppose now is a better time than ever to go back to my roots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm. Alright. What do you need done, Niki?” As subconsciously expected as it is, hearing it voiced so plainly and gently, stuns me, because I did not believe this would ever be something that would be this easy to get them to agree too, but at the end of the day, Eret is in seek of forgiveness, so why would they not? It was an attempt at returning home, and because I could see that now, at least, they were trying, and I believe in second chances, so why not give it a go? What else can we lose? Everything we have is temporary, there is nothing permanent for them to trap us with, so, in a way, we are untouchable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it that easy, Eret?” I whisper to him, my voice echoing in the stone halls, and melding into the brick, fossilizing there, like a historical lithograph in a museum, where it remains for years, without any such human contact. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is, yes.” They whisper back, eyes insistent, and jaw set in a fiery, determined focus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want in return?” I inquire. Straightening my back as I sheath my sword, trying to pick up any sign of hidden body language, or a smirk that lies in the clutches of deceit, waiting to lash out and pull the life from the lungs of my loved ones. One could never be too careful; especially with Eret. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A chance to fight at your side again. I don’t support Schlatt. Manberg is not what I sacrificed family for, and I want a chance to reclaim your home, even if I have tarnished it.” I am thankful I sheathed </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fruhling</span>
  </em>
  <span>, for I know if I had not have moments prior to hearing their words, or it would have dropped to the floor in my shock during that very moment. Hypothesizing the thoughts and motives of others in your head is one thing in its own, but to hear thse such things voiced by the very person who the hypothesis was made about in the first place… it’s something that, around these parts, is rarer than an Undying Totem. For a brief moment, I simply watch, in silence, fighting to keep the orchestral roar that sounded in my brain to a minimum as I force myself to collect my thoughts and answer their question. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… I cannot deny you that. Do we have a deal?” I say, clearing my throat, and taking to my feet, walking towards Eret and holding out my hand, who hesitates for a second, us both watching the other’s eyes, before they take my hand and shake on our deal. The moment the compromise has been made, I smile, fingertips ghosting over the hilt of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fruhling</span>
  </em>
  <span> as Eret gets to their feet and waves me ahead, turning around as they extract a key from the peacoat, grinning, as they rotate the tiny, brass object in their hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So have a deal. Come with me, if you wouldn’t mind. I have something to show you.” I nod, watching as they uncurl themselves from the throne armrest, and slouch their cape up, walking ahead of me. We walk away from the sudden warmth of the fire, taking up a torch from the wall. Following Eret through the silent palace halls, a light pitter patter of rain falling against the window panes, sure to crescendo into a full torrent, and hopefully, I could make it home without getting wrapped up in a flash flood after this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Niki?” They call, and I realize I’ve spaced out; clearing my throat and fixing my collar, as I briskly jog to catch up with them, watching the rain fall into the lake through the stained glass, the surface rippling and furious, turning it a deep, aggressive silver, the entire lake turning a shocking hue of pencil graphite. The world lived in greys, and sang in alto sopranos, and it felt… </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Wil and I were used to sing in the key of tenor/soprano, as it sounded prettiest with guitar. We’d waltzed in a meadow to a vinyl, turning quietly, filling the air with song, and somewhere along the line, we’d lost that, and I don’t ever reckon that we’ll get it back. But I thank my lucky stars that I’d clung to that moment when I was living in it. When he’d smiled, and taken my hand, and we’d danced, and laughed, and existed, but existence had become worse and worse for him, so he had no reasons for occasional revelries late at night when he’d groan and complain as I dragged him away from his desk, and pulled him into the night, watching him come alive, and breathe, clearly, as he looked upon the stars, but it had been long life, and he was getting tired. Too tired for dancing, or staying up later than the hour he’d been passing out at… I don’t think I realized until I watched the rain that I was losing my Wil, and it stings and burns, and I want to tear it from my chest, but I do nothing. I simply follow Eret down the hall, resisting a rather foolish urge to grab their hand, my fingers latching onto the seams of my jacket, instead, and letting my feet take me, as if I was living in nothing but an illusion. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i know, i know, niki is a bit out of character, but she's still incredible so be a doll and let it slide for me, please, thank you. some stuff i had to tweak anyways so it made more sense for my narrative, and for niki i just added a background and more driving qualities because my brain asked me to do so. anyways, thank you so much again for reading, and i promise i will be going to bed soon, don't worry about that, i know sleep is pretty pog sometimes, anyways i'm ranting, thank you all so much for reading, and stay awesome, and i hope your existence is a wonderous thing at this minute!<br/>el &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Tessellate</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The water falls in sheets, trapping our valley in a thick blanket of grey and silver, the wind whistling like a metal flute, and the trees bending at wonky angles. The storm outside was raging, and I couldn’t tell whether it was worse inside the White House, or out there with the whole, bitch fit the raging monsoon was busy conducting</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello! i hope your april was a good one! this chapter's song is 'tessellate', by alt-J. this chapter is special because it is a tubbo chapter, and i am extremely proud of it. writing tubbo is simply really cool and honestly a really enjoyable thing is making sure i've written him right, too. my best friend and i have been doing netflix watch parties recently, so that's real fun, and it's quickly getting into summer round me, so i spent almost two hours out on my porch daybed and guitar, which was very nice. holy fucking damn you guys, i am absolutely floored at all the attention this has gotten, i am so just amazed at how well theseus has done, and am so happy you love it! i have plenty of chapters ready and planned, and am so excited to tell you this story in my strange little way! but fucking hell, 780 hits and 23 kudos? that is simply a wonderful may day present, and thank you, all of you, for investing your time into this absolute commitment of a piece of writing, it means so much, and i love you all!<br/>el &lt;3 (and my new beta reader, will! i finally got a friend to help out with the editing, so hopefully the tenses and shit get worked out before publishing from now on.)<br/>((please heed content warning notice. i want to make sure each of you feel safe while writing, so please feel free to reach out via comment if you feel i need to tag something more thoroughly, or whatever it is! thank you all so much, and i hope you enjoy and have a wonderful beginning of your week!))</p><p>cw: mentions of ab*sive relationships, alcohol, and unhealthy usage of substances</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>ACT I: The Deceit of Achilles</p><p>-TUBBO-</p><hr/><p>
  <span>It’s raining. Real angrily, too. The water falls in sheets, trapping our valley in a thick blanket of grey and silver, the wind whistling like a metal flute, and the trees bending at wonky angles. The storm outside was raging, and I couldn’t tell whether it was worse inside the White House, or out there with the whole, bitch fit the raging monsoon was busy conducting. At that, thunder booms, shaking the beams in the ceiling, and Quackity’s wine glass that sits, idly, out on the table. A bolt of wicked quick, and bright-as-all-hell, lightning slits through the sky, tearing a gap through the customary grey of the clouds, the light falls through the room, suddenly, like a strobe lamp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The storm does not disrupt Quackity in the least. During working hours, he’s taken to camping out on the little couch in my office, the space far too big for my needs. Never mind personal comfort, and apparently, he felt the same. This arrangement was something that had begun with us just having the occasional lunch together which led to us both eating in a relative silence, until our break was over. He slouched out the door, like a wounded animal being forced to return to what had wounded him, and I didn’t see him until the next morning. Somehow, it had evolved into him joining me almost every day in my office; it becoming a regular sight to seem him precariously and silently perched on my couch, leaning against the arm rest, nursing a glass of wine, which was something that he had started pouring far too early, taking the edge off of a day that had not yet cleared noon, that became just another thing between the two of us that went unspoken. I didn’t mention the wine, the flinching, or the bruises, and he didn’t mention me running off to my bench when things got to be too much. I don’t think it was something we needed to talk about, really, we both just understood, and for us, that was enough. </span>
</p><p> <span>Big Q was loud sometimes, but loud was safe, and I liked being with him, even when it was silent, because naturally loud people, like Tommy, always were able to fill a room, not even needing to say a single word. Quackity had been quieter, recently, keeping himself toned down, as if he was fading, and spending so much time pretending he wasn’t, that he became so incredibly wrapped up in his own mind in the process of disconnecting from it. So much so, that he didn’t even notice the damn typhoon careening through the valley, and wrecking ruin upon anything and everything it touches. He barely even flinches, so much so that the only way he reacts, is by picking his pen off the page for a fraction of a second, head turning, passively, towards the window, before he slumps back over his task, and resumes flipping through pages for signature dashes, aimlessly. Lifting the glass from the table, he stops writing, taking a long drawl, and clumsily setting it down. I reckon he’s drunk. Or on the precipice before…  I don’t know. I’ve never been drunk before, but I’m used to the affliction. It was once as normal to me as there being a sunrise, and is not something I’d missed in the least.</span></p><p>
  <span>It’s not like I didn’t have the opportunity to get absolutely shit faced. I had many throughout the years. Wine was one of L’Manberg’s biggest contributions to the trading market, and one of our chief exports. And, according to what I’ve heard, it was one of the best labels in the entire realm, and was described as everything good our valley possessed, and tasted, apparently, like fresh spring water, and summer sun. It seemed alluring, tempting, almost, but I know what happens when that temptation is met, and it is not one that someone of my ancestry has learned how to refuse, so I stayed away from it. Refusing a celebratory glass when we’d won the first war, and each time afterwards. It was my own country’s wine, after all. It’s not like I was offending anyone if I refused once offered at political dinners for diplomats coming to L’Manberg for political alliances, and to maintain their country’s allyship with my own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thunder shakes the support beams in the ceiling, the jagged line carving its jarringly sinister way through the valley, sounding like the very sky was being torn apart at the seams: the storm was drawing closer, insisting upon destruction and cruelty, yet wondrous revitalization of our valley. The withering lilac bushes that stand, proudly, in pebbled-off circles of the White House Garden, sway heavily in the wind. The leaves lacerate away from the stem, although they didn’t have long, as the entire expanse of the garden had been preparing itself for fall, the leaves rusting to a gentle yellow, before turning into water-laden paper, and crunched under one’s boot. The storm was ripping the Garden apart, to put it all quite frankly, and I knew I would never hear the end of said storm damage from both Esmeralda and Ro come tomorrow morning to tend to the garden, which would be… enjoyable to eavesdrop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A loud scritch from Quackity’s side of the room diverts my gaze from staring, lost in thought, out the windows at the grey void of destruction, and returning to asessing whatever the hell Big Q was doing on the couch, which turns out to be angrily crossing out a probable mistake on a document, sighing, and hanging his head in his hands, before abruptly picking his head up, and balling the paper up, leaning forward, and chucking into the bin at the side of my desk. He leans backwards against the couch with a sigh, and stretches his wings out behind him, as he groaned tiredly, rubbing his eyes. He turns, and finally, </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span>, directs his attention to what lay outside the windows, the panes rattling with the gale of the wind and turrent of the rain, and he whistles, blinking, and rubbing his hands together, as if finally realizing that he was of this earth and temperature still holds sway over him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn. It’s really raining cats and dogs out there, huh, Tubbo?” I nod impassively, keeping as neutral of an expression as possible, before I take the provocation of conversation as a cue to turn back to my mountain of paperwork, raging from import records, negotiation contracts over supplies and weapon requests that needed, ‘my immediate attention’, even though Schlatt’s messy scrawl already hung, adjacent, to the signature boxes, reciting that he did not follow anyone’s suggestions, even official documents, regardless of George’s adamant request that Schlatt, at least, signs his own documents correctly, which I had to agree with him on. If he just did it the way he was supposed too, I wouldn’t have an extra three hours of work every night, and could devote my time to what mattered, like going to see Tommy, and reporting back to Wilbur about Schlatt and the whole Manberg fiasco I was trying not to let get worse, which was much more of struggle than I had originally planned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything I did felt like it conflicted something else equally valuable. Each time I snuck away to check on Tommy and report back to Wilbur, I was letting down Quackity. Schlatt could fuck on off and die, I wanted nothing to do with that man, and never will. I don’t owe him shit. I’m keeping this country afloat so someone capable can take charge of it, not because I owe Schlatt anything, or trust him. He’s a douchebag who doesn’t have a redeemable bone in his body, and I could care less if he lived or died in the war, a war that I know full well, is coming, I’m not stupid. It’s in the air, or some shit,  coming fast upon us, like the storm that is berating down. But Quackity wasn’t all that bad, really. It was nice having someone with me during the work day, as being alone wasn’t something I was used to, or was optimal, owing to how quiet the White House seems to get, even though Big Q was a bit boisterous at times, and interruptive, but that didn’t bother me. Half the time I had no idea what the fuck I was even prattling on about, and I liked the attention taken by someone else. It was… relaxing, not being stared at and expected to do something. Besides, it reminded me of Tommy, and I took those reminders of the big man as little victories. At least, I allowed myself to smile at them whenever I came across them throughout my day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ll be as bluntly honest as I can, I want to run from this shit, like how Tommy suggested. Run and never come back, but I can’t let Wilbur or Tommy down. That would be a failure on my part, and I cannot fail them again. I saw the way they looked at me when I remained by Schlatt’s side as they fled, and Ender, I wanted to go with them. But I couldn’t move, and I still don’t know to explain that reaction to them. Not like they don’t know who Schlatt is, Wilbur was the one who told me, after all, but… I don’t think that was something Wilbur believed. The scent of betrayal was in the air, and each side was turning to me for answers, and I had no idea what to do with that attention, or how much it burned as their eyes lacerate their way through me, searching for a lie, for a misstep, for a dishonesty… but I was careful. I shut myself off during the day, doing my work quietly, and speaking about book club subjects, and not daring to waiver from anything but work or surface level pretend bullshit that was easy to make up, and even easier to keep up with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But </span>
  <em>
    <span>Manberg </span>
  </em>
  <span>stung. Even just the name had me taking double takes, and I cannot even begin to admit to how many times I’ve spelled it down with an ‘L’, being forced to scrap the whole document moments later, and begin again. It was shitty. It was beyond the precipice of not ideal. But, the rain offered a sense of comfort, and not some pretend one, forged in plastic, and protected by a boundary of glass, and it seemed to wrap itself around my panic and sing to sleep, allowing me, for the first time… in a while, to take a deep breath, and even while I’m mulling over paperwork, and tssk-ing over the way Schlatt decided to perform his signature, I feel… calm, or as calm as I can as my throat threatens to close under the weight of my own confliction. </span>
  <span>For I am a liar, and a kid carving a mosaic of betrayal without a soul noticing, but I can live in ignorance, and say I am doing all this in spite of Schlatt’s wrongs, and my own, (as I was just as much contributing to the disfunction as any other serving member of this cabinet) regardless of the wonderment that I was doing the right thing that seemed to gnaw at me, even though I knew I was, or at least, I think I do. Who I am to dictate that for anyone but myself? Perspective, as always, will remain a bitch that makes everything just a bit more complicated, throwing a wrench in your own defense, by providing you with the sympathy of another. It was driving me crazy, and whether running was a good answer or not, at least I would be away from reminders of my own acid-coated deceit. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I should check on the hives tomorrow. See if the storm’s knocked them around too much, or not. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I hope it hadn’t, I thought I’d designed them so these such storms that descended upon us from the North Mountains, lying waste to the valley, and turned our monsoons, which were already violent things, into straight-up typhoons of rain, and wind, and had the gutters in the streets running debris right out to the ocean. Storms have never bothered me, not really. I was born by the ocean, and raised the very same, until Wilbur took us with him, and later, we engaged in some ‘long-term camping’, in the van, in weather just like this, if not worse. L’Manberg’s weather patterns were a bit of an anomaly, with winter not crescendoing into blizzards until late November-early December, which left us with our beloved monsoons, dumping frigid rain upon us, and icy gales of wind. None of which were good for bees, and I’m sure they’d complain to me about it tomorrow morning, if it was a nice day, at least, and if I can get up in time. Watching the sunrise with Tommy had been draining, and a lot to process, and I’d gone to work right after, not bothering to sleep, as I knew full well there was no way I possibly could manipulate myself into dotting my ‘i’s and crossing my ‘t’s. Not when each and every word Tommy had said to me echoes through my head, and fills me with even more worry than it did the first time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Tommy was here, I would have been knocked out, and dragged to bed, and he would not have allowed any of my, ‘sleep deprivation bullshit’. But, everybody here, had their own shit a thousand times more interesting than some simply bickering with sleep, so I would have to suck it up, and shut up if I wanted to keep my head afloat. Because Schlatt was like a wolf, hungry and feral, and we were all doing our best to keep our hands away from getting bit right off, or have something thrown at our heads in warning, because Wilbur may be emotionally tyrannical in some of the ways he composes himself around others, but Schlatt checked both the emotional and physical boxes, and it was absolutely terrifying to be on the receiving end of. Which, I rarely was. He knew full well who I was, not like it was hard. You could be blind, and still recognize our relation from our voices alone. The fucker and I look identical, almost as if we’re the same person, but at two separate points along the timeline, but, luckily for me, he’d wordlessly chosen not to acknowledge his failure of a son if he didn’t absolutely have to, and that feeling, thank Ender, was absolutely and completely mutual. He could call me failure as much as he wanted, I don’t give a shit, he’s not my family. He gave that up when he left me with Wilbur. Which, funny enough, turned out to be the best thing he’ll ever do for me. It doesn’t matter. I’m not here to resolve that chapter. That’s over and done with, I’m here to get his alcoholic ass away from my country. I did not die at Dream’s hand to have L’Manberg’s name raked through the mud, and I will act like Mr. Nice Guy as much as I have too, in order to get it back, and have him removed from his place of power, and see my friends… my fucking family, really, they’ve been all I’ve ever known, retired, and spending our days home, together, how it was, and how it should be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, these are the delusions of a child, and I am not childish. I can feel the change in the air, and how it resembles static electricity. This large, unspoken thing just waiting to lurch out and pull the world down, making someone’s heart and brain wage war with itself, and be fueled by conflict, and blood. Things were turning ugly, becoming as gritty as the dirt from the trenches I still bite away from my nails, although it has not existed there for years, but I could smell war in the air, and like last time, it would burn through our home and set the rains aflame, and instead of our valley feeling like a festival, it would be known to us a funeral, and nothing more. I could smell misery, and she was coming quickly, and with her, like some believed was invoked by a dropping of a spoon, came company. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The rain continues to pour even after the light has dwindled away, and there is nothing left but a gentle glow of the foreboding clouds, the light seemingly trapped with them, strangled until it dripped into nothing, and the sun was gone, leaving nothing but a infinite abysmal ceiling of darkness, illuminated only by the occasional bolt of lightning. It’s nearly 10PM, and yet, Quackity and I are still cowered inside, the both of us have apparently reached a consensus of trying to finish our respective work projects, and because of this we have both been working in a relative silence, tunneled in on our tasks, even though I’ve almost passed out three or four times in the pass hour due to what could be both exhaustion or boredom, or maybe… if it really wanted to pull a fast one on me, could be both. But regardless on what it is, I am thankful my paperwork stack is dwindling into nothing, and my brain has already begun to shift into the ‘going home’, stage, and I didn’t hate it, I was too tired to cognitively put two and two together, and rightly so. I’d been here for almost eighteen hours. But, I didn’t mind, because drowning myself in work was a way to get things to settle down, for me, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once I’ve finished with the last paperwork lag, throwing it on my stack of completed, and cracking my knuckles outwardly. I yawn and hold my head in my hands, threading my hands through my hair, and doing my best to ignore the similarities between both my messy scrawl and Schlatt’s my sleep-logged brain seems to be clinging too, for reasons I cannot bring myself to understand, but as I shrug my jacket over my suit, and button it down, popping the collar, and throwing my bag over my shoulder. Carefully, and quietly enough to not disturb Quackity, I pick my axe up from the floor, and proceed to hold it both dangerously and badly under my arm as I switch off the lamp on my desk. I pull a blanket from one of the drawers, unfolding it, and throwing it over Quackity, who does not stir. I make my way to the door, shutting off the light, and slipping out the door and fiddling with my sleeves as I make my way through the halls. Stopping dead outside Schlatt’s office, and peering through the crack in the door, watching as he leans against the window frame, the only light present, a street lamp from outside, which outlines nothing in the room but his silhouette and the shadows that lurk in the corners of his office, reflecting off the crystal of the liquor glass he grips in his hand, as if indebted to it. I scowl, and turn away, continuing to make my way through the halls, until I reach the main entrance, and approach the desk, sighing as I lift the pen, look at my watch, and jot down my sign-out information, smiling at Morgan, our security guard, who nods back at me, tipping his hat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have a good night, sir. It’s raining awful hard, are you sure you can make it back home alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I’m sure. Thank you, Morgan. See you later tomorrow morning, okay? Say hello to Genevieve and the girls for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, sir. I’ll make sure to tell them for you, sir.” He beams, and buzzes me out, and I hear the safety lock click, bracing myself for a hot minute, before I throw open the door, bracing against the wind, and slam it closed, the door locking behind me, and the moment I’m out on the entrance stoop, I sigh. The rain wasn’t as cruel as it was earlier, making my walk through the garden manageable, and not entirely terrible, which was a relief, as I’d been prepared for a lot worse. The wrought iron gate, still imbrazoned with it’s signature ‘L’, from back when the White House was a home, and whirlwind of disaster, not a single thing that was good presiding from the corners when we turned our heads. I had delayed the replacement of the ‘L’, into the Manberg </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘M’</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and would continue to do so for long as I could without getting found out. The gate had been hung the first dinner we’d all had together on the lawn. With undy still small enough for his Dad to carry him on his shoulders, and Tommy and I getting dragged around the entire garden, letting Fundy ramble about every type of plant he could. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A gale wind begins to howl, and I brace against the stone, not letting the storm get the better of me, and instead, I trudge on, ignoring the water leaking through my shoes and slacks, and the frigidness of the rain, that seemed to bite and scratch at me, whittling away my willpower, until the only thing that remained was the need to get home, and get warm, </span>
  <em>
    <span>inside</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I slouch under the weight of the axe, taking into account how cold and dreary everything seems to be as I pass, fog clouding around the streetlamps, limiting the light, and making it seem cold, and dangerously unnatural in the torrential night. Someone’s shutters bang in the wind, adding to the cacophonic whirlwind of sound that seems to berate my senses, shunning all reason and thought to the back of my mind, as every hair on the back of my neck stands on end, my nerves biting into my soul, and leeching pure, unadulterous, mortal terror into my bloodstream. I pretend not to notice how shaky the grasp around my axe is, and instead, continue walking, soothed, only slightly, at the sign of the front lawn of my garden, and the wooden slatted garden gate. I unhook the latch of my gate, having a right time of shutting my gate without having it fly off its hinges and smack me against the wall, yet somehow, I manage it, kicking at it, to make sure its finished, which makes me tssk at myself, making a mental note to check the paint job in the morning. I walk up to my stoop, the lights off eerily due to me not having been home in several days, and dig around for my key at the bottom of my bag, hand clasping around it, and I finally slouch down, letting myself relax another notch as I unlock the door, and hurriedly scramble inside, slamming the door shut, locking both latch, and deadbolt, and flicking the light on abruptly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I drop the bag from my shoulder, dropping the axe on the breakfast table with a loud thud, as I slip my shoes off, and beeline to the bedroom, making another mental note to water my plants the following morning, and pretending as if my home office didn’t have three entire notebook pages of tasks I needed to complete, my shoulders and body feeling heavier as I throw my jacket to the chair, and shut my door behind me. I pull at my tie and throw it into the corner of my room, doing the same to the cufflinks I hated more than anything in the world. My clothes are uncomfortably damp, the polyester sticking to my skin as if it wanted to inflict more irritation on me on this End-forsaken night, and I groan in disgust, drowsily searching for the pajamas I’d discarded a few mornings ago, pulling them over to me, and sloppily changing. I chuck the watter logged button up, suit jacket, and slacks into the corner. I made sure to take Tommy’s bandana out of my jacket pocket and hang it on my radiator, chucking the clothes into a corner for me to deal with the following morning, as I pull at a bunch in my knees, and drop to the mattress, absolutely fucking exhausted. I pull the blanket over my shoulders, sighing and rolling flat on my back, staring up into the ceiling as the storm rages around me, lightning peeking through the curtains, and thunder rattling my windows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In this moment of semi-silence, things come back to me. Things I don’t like, but tolerate in my own make-believe bubble of pretend. It was like I was an illusionist, signing my own mind up for another half-truth, or just another half-assed magic trick, this one having me pretend that I didn’t smell gunpowder, or that every single rumble of thunder and the accompaniment of lightning seconds later didn’t remind me of an explosion, and I pull the blanket over my head, fighting for something that was reminiscent of safety, even though I knew I was alone. I had buried myself into a job, and was now drowning in a poisonous, dying sea of lies, and no matter how much I fight against the current, I cannot keep my head above water, and as I begin to slip away, into a vast, dark void of nothing, I do not fight it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I do not even give it the satisfaction of an acknowledgement, I just allow it to drown me, and send me off to a fitful, dreamless slumber, of falling further and further underwater, the bright blue and gold of the sun and sky dwindling to nothing but a speck in the distance, until the air is gone from my lungs, and I am left with nothing but residual staticky, silence, the storm long forgotten. Along with what I’d called fear, because I smiled through this, knowing that this would be the only solace my conflict-addled brain would allow, and at that, I wrap my arm around my pillow, and drift away from awareness or comprehension, and… for what feels like a brief moment but in reality, is several hours, I allow myself to hang in the balance of a large expanse of a contemplative </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>tubbo my absolute beloved. he is such a complex and diverse character, and is so fun to write! i hope you enjoyed this shorter chapter, as these are not the most common thing ever as you've probably deduced by now. thank you for reading, and, in the words of my greek grandmother who i called me for greek easter today, i hope you have the most awesome minute, cherished hour, calmest day, chillest week, and most chaotic month. i love you all very much,<br/>stay amazing, my loves!<br/>-el &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Cold Wind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The rain is merciless, and it leaks into the cavity where my heart once called home, filling the space with icy, frigid water, the feeling spreading through my body, and clawing its way to remain attached onto my soul. It is crueler than the pull of the tide, or the actions and voice of a cruel faceless creature. It both burns and freezes my skin, leaving kisses of light-toned hypothermia, the full brunt of the moment not yet having fully sunk it’s fangs into me.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello, i hope the first few weeks of your may is going nicely! the song for this chapter is cold wind (day 6), by ludovido einuadi. good news, monsooon season has begun, and i could not be happier, it is so incredibly gorgeous here when it rains! fun story, i had to work on US mother's day yesterday, and it was actually hell, i do not recomend that at all. to begin, i am so sorry, this chapter is like 85% angst, and the other fifteen is just metaphorical human suffering of my own selective poetry. anyways, very happy may! lovejoy got released yesterday, which is some of the best news i have ever heard in two weeks, and i have not stopped listening to that ep for a single waking moment, and quite honestly, don't plan on it. guys, genuinely thank you so much for expressing your interest in this fic, it means so much, and all the kudos and hits mean the absolute cosmos, i love you all so very much, and thank you from the bottom of my heart, receiving all this support is honestly so incredible! my school year is ending soon, so i have literally like nine symposiums and presentations, so if you don't hear from me for a bit, don't worry, i am just drowning in school work.<br/>a huge thank you to my beta editor, will, he has been such a big help with this, and i am so glad he's been so nice with helping me with this project, so thank you, buddy! you're saving my whole life, my silly brain refuses to edit things always, it's kind of pathetic in a funny way.<br/>el &lt;3</p><p> </p><p> (just a little forewarning, c!wil is not a stable character, if i can deduce anything from the absolute mess that is his mental health bracket under the wiki, so please know his chapters are not the most pleasant to read at times on purpose. thank you so much for reading, on with the formal content warnings for realsies, this time)<br/>cw: explicit references of smoking, general mentions of self h*tred/loathing, idealization of d*ath, light derealization and some references of d*ssociation, mentions of explosives, severe injuries, and blood.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>ACT I: The Deceit of Achilles</p><p>-WILBUR-</p>
<hr/><p>The rain is merciless, and it leaks into the cavity where my heart once called home. Filling the space with icy, frigid water, the feeling spreading through my body, and clawing its way to remain attached onto my soul. It is crueler than the pull of the tide, or the actions and voice of a cruel faceless creature, and it both burns and freezes my skin, leaving kisses of light-toned hypothermia in it’s wake. The full brunt of the moment not yet having fully sunk it’s fangs into me. It is accompanied by welts and boils of immortal heat, and the twinge of a nonexistent primordial flame. It was a bad night, that’s for sure. A <em> really </em> bad one. My head already light and swimming beforehand, but now, to be fully real with you, I feel like a corpse. An empty husk of a person, like the dead things that wander in the deserts after travelers, desperate for a way out of their eternal inferno, but never, <em> ever </em>, finding the way out no matter how long they wander. The scene on the cliff flashes through my mind and I hear myself take a choked breath, almost collapsing to the muddy ground as I do so, the horror of the man who’d stood in front of me, flickering through into my place of vision. His mockingly joyful smile etched into my memory along with the dragged void of pain that courses through my blood as I feel all reason… all life, it seems, drain from me. Darkened, and grotesque words echo in my mind, scalding down my spine, leaving a ghostly chill in it’s place. I adjust the nicks in my shoulders as I walk, suddenly moving to realign my posture as I bend my spine backwards. Stretching it so much so that it’s almost painful, and nearly knocks me off my stride again, but I stumble forward, ignoring the ache in my bones, and the bruises I know full well, are spattered in plenty, lying in a plentiful abundance around the corners and shadows of my body, their exact placements, only End-knows. And I simply don’t care enough to check. They’ll go away with time, but for now, they serve as a reminder not to be a stupid backtracking prick. I may be fucked in the head, but I’m a man of my word, even if the timing of it all is shit, and  laggy… but that’s not the issue.</p><p>The issue for me, right now, yeah? Is getting home without getting caught, because then I’d get interrogated, and I’m pretty sure that fluorescent green fuck-ass gave me a black eye. So that would be hard as shit to both explain and find my way out of, which I don’t want to deal with. Because right now, my body feels… <em> thin </em>. As if not much is holding it to me, and the vitality I’d somewhat regained, was gone. Leaving nothing but a corpse and a heavy-hearted reminder of what was expected of me. If I wasn’t in so much pain, this could almost be funny. Me, terrified of walking through a place I’d turned into something resembling a home, as Pogtopia was not meant to be that for us. It was like a turnstile, something resembling a halfway house until we got back on our feet. But it still felt like a place I could call home, and a part of me begged for the chance to be able too, but I cannot allow myself to be attached. Getting attached causes conflict, that conflict causes strife, which leads to war, and gets me where I am today, which is just a shattered remnant of a president, and every other thing that I could call mine. I angrily pushing the piece of wood that blocks off Pogtopia’s western entrance, aside. Silently, I duck through the passageway, pulling it closed with a dreadful scraping noise moments later. The sheer sound of it, sends tremors through my fingers and up my spine, making me flinch however slightly, before I roll my shoulders, force myself to take a breath as I attempt to half-heartedly ground myself to the present, as the temperature and sentiment of the rain at my back was something no longer present. The wind howls in anger behind me, as if mourning the loss of my presence, saddened that it could no longer inflict its icy rage upon me, each gale feeling like a blade tearing through my chest. This visual unsettles me, and I can’t help it when my hand grazes to my neck, nails running the length of the scar I’d received from getting my throat slit in the Final Control Room. That had been a theatre of suffering that had an influence so great, that for a moment, I feel myself go to take a seat in the audience again. Waiting for the moment to play through my mind again in a dull rapture. But I shatter the thought, and begin to rummage, desperately, in my pocket for the matchbook and the tea tin packed full of cigarettes, angrily taking the letter addressed to my father out of my pocket and holding it between my teeth. Once my hand falls upon what I’m looking for, I sigh in raptured relief. And pull the letter from my teeth, and return it to my pocket, smiling as I unclasp the cigarette tin lid. </p><p>Shakily, I lift one between my lips, holding it steady with my teeth as I  snap the lid closed, and returning it to my pocket.  I move to strike the match against the lid of a chest, the flame hissing and billowing to life. I lift it to the end of the cigarette, lighting it, and watching the flame burn down until it’s life has become expired, and pitifully useless as I throw it, carelessly to the ground. I inhale, sighing in relief, my eyes rolling into my head as smoke begins to cloud my senses, and entrap my lungs in a constant game of cat and mouse. The smoke burning away at the rot and mildew that have begun to build up inside me, dispersed only with fire and the threat of a blade, as it has somehow began to think I am a corpse, and maybe it is right. And as I said before, I look like one, so, at least the sword is being honest with me. I’d seen my reflection in the glint of my sword, and as warped that image is, I knew full well how much I look like a cloudy midnight bathed in gunpowder, and the filthy, pungent stench of death. My eyes are heavy, my eyes no longer shining, as I’m told they did once, even if they have not in years. I gather that instead of them appearing like amber ingots, they are now just simply dirt from our cemetery, swirling together, never full focused or here, and I am fine with that. For meanwhile, I assume. This vessel of blood and skin was nothing but a doll, a malleable, paper doll, that was waiting to be severed from my chain, begging for it, really, even though no one had the heart to hear, but I wished someone did. This task of mine was for the good of L’Manberg, I knew that. I knew it was a dead place, full of individuals and my own person who took advantage of her beauty for their own needs and vanities, and abandoning what she had originally been built for, for the abyss, as if it meant absolutely fucking nothing. That’s why I had to take it away. It was like taking a toy from Fundy if he was being too rowdy with it. It was the same thing, in a way. Only in this context it’s the creator of that nation confiscating the very foundation of that fucking thing like contraband, because maybe a change of leadership and subsequent exile would do nothing to effect anyone, but explosives? Explosives were a very good persuader. I’d learned that from the best.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I make my way down the steps into Pogtopia, the lights dim, and only a select handful of lanterns lit, and hung high along the rafter beams, sending cascading shadows of the glass compartment kaleidoscoping against the cavernous, stone walls. It is morbidly empty, the entire spance of our cave is like a tomb, save for gentle whispering coming from the kitchen, and the light issuing from a lit lantern catching me eye, the thing hanging from the ceiling of where me and my brothers slept, and I guessed it was due to Theodore’s before-bed reading. Hopefully they’d both be asleep soon, if they weren’t already. I didn’t want to speak to either of them, redemption is not my forte, and even then, fuck it. I don’t need redemption, I just need to cause enough chaos, to rip holes into Manberg’s false power and quartz-carved <em> perfection </em> to dethrone their wrongs, and obliterate them, individually. I push myself into the light of the kitchen, about to go in for a glass of water, when I see Niki, hair clumped together and dripping onto the table, hanging messily around her head like some sort of siren’s halo. She’s staring, fixated on her comms unit, in a state of nothing else but pure shock. Her makeup is running in big, tear-like droplets, and her clothes are absolutely soaked, but she doesn’t seem to be capable of processing any of that, or that she even has made note of the fact that she is in that sort of state. It’s shocking, jarring even, and absolutely unexpected, and I, although concern weighs at me, like a stone block pulling someone who’s been thrown overboard, under the water. I don’t move. Not because I don’t want too, she needs help, I should help her, I know that, but, I can’t move. The shadows feel like they’re clinging to me, pulling me further into the wide depts of nothing. Shamefully, I pull my coat around my body, falling against the doorway and tightening my grip around the edge of a stone ledge, my breathing falling in shaky, unsteady gasps that infuriate me. I don’t deserve a descent into this austere, macabre void of safety. I don’t deserve to be panicked, for it is me who is making the wrong choice, here. And it will be me who will always make the wrong choice, humming the reprise under my breath until there is no more air in my lungs, or even a husk of a requiem to sing.</p><p>“Goodnight, Niki. I’m sorry.” I whisper as I tear myself away from her sitting in the kitchen, laughing guilty as tears burn at the corners of my eyes, barely even sparing a second to wipe them away with my sleeve, before I pull my arms around my body, and for a moment it feels as if I’m holding myself together, keeping the rot inside me from spilling out, and bloodying the path in front of me. I bite my lip to a raw line, trying to shuffle an anxious wave of molten-hot anger and shame as far away from me as possible as I seem to float through the halls, my body moving of it’s own accord, and my eyes and cheeks feeling as if they were burning up, not fully comprehending what I was doing, or why I wasn’t helping, or how none of this was working, and how it feels like I had already been pierced with a bullet from an all-knowing gun. My ribs grow heavy, and it feels like I can feel each individual on. The soft cotton of my clothes, and freezing me to my core, as I half-heartedly trail my fingertips lightly against the rock face of the stone walls that seemed to be inching themselves closer and closer around me. The lantern is off, the wax looks melted, and I silently walk to my own cot, tuning out the snores of both my brothers as the sounds seem to coax me to rip at my hair, and bite at my skin. Instead, I pull off my boots, arranging them in a shaky line against the wall. I rip off my gloves, and throw both them and my beanie over on of them, hoping the thing will dry by morning. I fold up my glasses, and tuck them into a ledge carved into the stone, and pull down the covers, slipping under the tide of warmth. I lay there, trying to keep as still as I can so my mind doesn’t remind me of the situation at hand. Hesitantly, as if unsure I’m worth it, sleep gradually overtakes me, making me feel like a stone at the bottom of the ocean. It’s becoming a bit of a fight to keep my eyes open, which is a funny thing, as it had not happened in a while. Crows and raptors vicious and vying for my blood, tearing each other to pieces just for the sight of it, making it difficult to think, never mind have my mind clear enough to sleep. I shift again, curling up against the wall, and pulling my legs up to my chest. Chuckling lightly to myself and wiping the remainder of the tears from my eyes, I realized the extremity of how much I’ve curled myself up into a ball to such an extremity that I’m certain if anyone could see me, they’d probably laugh at how I looked like a useless lump of brown hair being swallowed by my scorched, torn-to-shit, red sleeping bag. </p><p>I close my eyes, and tune my hearing away from my brothers’ obnoxious as all shit, snoring and towards something that sounds oddly unnatural and bizarrely unnatural for Pogtopia this time of night, but I accept the worry attached to whichever thing is sounding like a perishing phantom drowning in a stalagmite pool, and allow it to pull me out to sea, abandoning my conscience and leaving me to play on the banks of the River Lethe of Hades’ Underworld, baby blue forget-me-nots swaying in a deadly, fiery breeze as I simply watch myself wander aimlessly. Searching for something that I do not understand, or know how to possibly wrap my brain around at this moment, because it feels like breathing and being present is more than enough. But the feeling, as overwhelming and blindingly terrifying as it is, is familiar, and it is relaxing, in the worst possible way, and it does not disturb me from my slumber. If anything, propels me forward, until I have reached a state of complete existential nothing, and am allowed to just wander a gentle, grey void, my mind swimming in gentle waters, instead of one ringed in flames and red from the blood of a thousand felled men lying at my feet, their bodies charred and blackened by ash after being kissed by an unforgiving flame. When I open my eyes, I’m back home. Sitting on the edge of a rocky cliff, guitar over my knee. Things remain calm here. Gentle, even, and the waves lap against a ghostly shore, the world around me deadly silent save for the pull and dredge of the ocean. It is night, but things glow grey, like the sun and moon had merged, the night sky glows in shades of teal blues, and steady greens, the constellations standing out like the purple glint of netherite, each star shining brighter than the last; and it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Doves like the ones that sing in summer trill, and I look up following a pair that flits across the night sky. My eyes fall upon the flickering red and grey lights on the horizon, the faint sound of phantom singing sounds from shadows forming the gentle illusion of people around me, as I gradually become blinded by a train that whirls out of a tunnel, the insides darkened, and the steel monster paying no attention to either me, or the seashore. And I pay no mind to it, watching it disappear into yet another darkened tunnel with a dreaded whistle, before I turn back to the ocean and the doves, taking a steady, deep breath as things begin to decrescendo yet again into an abysmal darkness, cold enough, that it tricks my brain into believing its warmth. It is not just simply the ice cold gale of dissipating into nothing, the chill is accompanied by the turrent of the ocean that rises and falls below me, and it tastes of salt and rainwater-dappled fields of wind-swept lavender.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>okay, deep breaths, good lord that's a lot to unpack. yeah, so dream smp lore is supposed to get intense this is week, which is... fucking terrifying, but proves that myself and brother dearest were correct in our predictions, so that's cool. things are about to kick up, both there, and here, and it's going to happen pretty quickly, so get ready for that, because it's a steep drop, and i don't intend on letting up until everything's been resolved, and the button has been pushed.<br/>i hope you have a good week, and i hope your mother's day weekend was wonderful!<br/>so much love, stay amazing, my loves,<br/>el &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi! so, i happen to be someone who deals with memory loss troubles, and i will be very honest, writing this is a challenge, but it is a challenge i do not mind because i adore writing this story, even if i am working on keeping everything clear and consolidated so it's easier for me to understand and remember lore-wise, but please be patient if information is skewed, or if time is a bit off, things are subject to change, and i'm going to be going through and editing to keep things as clear as much as i can! thank you so much for reading it truly means the world, and don't be shy to drop a comment, but holy shit, you guys thank you so much, 12 kudos is just fucking insane, thank you so damn much!!<br/>el &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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